straightened-out forefinger, telling the driver to keep that carriage in sight.  The pot-boy had to be satisfied on his master’s account, and then on his own, and away shot Wilfrid, wet with beer from throat to knee—­to his chief protesting sense, nothing but an exhalation of beer!  “Is this what they drink?” he groaned, thinking lamentably of the tastes of the populace.  All idea of going near Emilia was now abandoned.  An outward application of beer quenched his frenzy.  She seemed as an unattainable star seen from the depths of foul pits.  “Stop!” he cried from the window.

“Here we are, sir,” said the cabman.

The carriage had drawn up, and a footman’s alarum awakened one of the houses.  The wretched cabman had likewise drawn up right under the windows of the carriage.  Wilfrid could have pulled the trigger of a pistol at his forehead that moment.  He saw that Miss Ford had recognized him, and he at once bowed elegantly.  She dropped the window, and said, “You are in evening dress, I think; we will take you in with us.”

Wilfrid hoped eagerly he might be allowed to hand them to the door, and made three skips across the mire.  Emilia had her hands gathered away from the chances of seizure.  In wild rage he began protesting that he could not possibly enter, when Georgiana said, “I wish to speak to you,” and put feminine pressure upon him.  He was almost on the verge of the word “beer,” by way of despairing explanation, when the door closed behind him.

“Permit me to say a word to your recent companion.  He is my father’s clerk.  I had to see him on urgent business; that is why I took this liberty,” he said, and retreated.

Braintop was still there, quietly posted, performing upon his head with a pocket hair-brush.

Wilfrid put Braintop’s back to the light, and said, “Is my shirt soiled?”

After a short inspection, Braintop pronounced that it was, “just a little.”

“Do you smell anything?” said Wilfrid, and hung with frightful suspense on the verdict.  “A fellow upset beer on me.”

“It is beer!” sniffed Braintop.

“What on earth shall I do?” was the rejoinder; and Wilfrid tried to remember whether he had felt any sacred joy in touching Emilia’s dress as they went up the steps to the door.

Braintop fumbled in the breast-pocket of his coat.  “I happen to have,” he said, rather shamefacedly.

“What is it?”

“Mrs. Chump gave it to me to-day.  She always makes me accept something:  I can’t refuse.  It’s this:—­the remains of some scent she insisted on my taking, in a bottle.”

Wilfrid plucked at the stopper with a reckless desperation, saturated his handkerchief, and worked at his breast as if he were driving a lusty dagger into it.

“What scent is it?” he asked hurriedly.

“Alderman’s Bouquet, sir.”