“No!” in wonderment, several times.

Her hair was cut like a boy’s.  She was in common garments, with a close-shaped skull-cap and a black straw bonnet on her head; not gloved, of ill complexion, and with deep dark lines slanting down from the corners of her eyes.  Yet the inspection convinced him that he beheld Dahlia, his remembering the niece.  He was amazed; but speedily priceless trust in his arms, and the wickedness of the streets, he bade her follow him.  She did so with some difficulty, for he ran, and dodged, and treated the world as his enemy, suddenly vanished, and appeared again breathing freely.

“Why, my girl?” he said:  “Why, Dahl—­Mrs. What’s-your-name?  Why, who’d have known you?  Is that”—­he got his eyes close to her hair; “is that the ladies’ fashion now?  ’Cause, if it is, our young street scamps has only got to buy bonnets, and—­I say, you don’t look the Pomp.  Not as you used to, Miss Ma’am, I mean—­no, that you don’t.  Well, what’s the news?  How’s your husband?”

“Uncle,” said Dahlia; “will you, please, let me speak to you somewhere?”

“Ain’t we standing together?”

“Oh! pray, out of the crowd!”

“Come home with me, if my lodgings ain’t too poor for you,” said Anthony.

“Uncle, I can’t.  I have been unwell.  I cannot walk far.  Will you take me to some quiet place?”

“Will you treat me to a cab?” Anthony sneered vehemently.

“I have left off riding, uncle.”

“What!  Hulloa!” Anthony sang out.  “Cash is down in the mouth at home, is it?  Tell me that, now?”

Dahlia dropped her eyelids, and then entreated him once more to conduct her to a quiet place where they might sit together, away from noise.  She was very earnest and very sad, not seeming to have much strength.

“Do you mind taking my arm?” said Anthony.

She leaned her hand on his arm, and he dived across the road with her, among omnibuses and cabs, shouting to them through the roar,—­

“We’re the Independence on two legs, warranted sound, and no competition;” and saying to Dahlia:  “Lor’ bless you! there’s no retort in ’em, or I’d say something worth hearing.  It’s like poking lions in cages with raw meat, afore you get a chaffing-match out o’ them.  Some of ’em know me.  They’d be good at it, those fellows.  I’ve heard of good things said by ’em.  But there they sit, and they’ve got no circulation—­ain’t ready, except at old women, or when they catch you in a mess, and getting the worst of it.  Let me tell you; you’ll never get manly chaff out of big bundles o’ fellows with ne’er an atom o’ circulation.  The river’s the place for that.  I’ve heard uncommon good things on the river—­not of ’em, but heard ’em.  T’ other’s most part invention.  And, they tell me, horseback’s a prime thing for chaff.  Circulation, again.  Sharp and lively, I mean; not bawl, and answer over your back—­most part impudence, and nothing else—­and then