At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. In privacy he read and reread it a dozen times, and eventually destroyed it by fire. ‘Went to the dogs, did Jarvis, after Mary died. He looked around, and as he heard that deafening shout,— as he felt the influence of those thousand eyes fixed upon him,—as he listened to the cheers, all his misgivings—if he had any—vanished, and he felt more as if he were marching to a triumph, than proceeding to a shameful death. Kneebone smiled assent. ‘Yes, dear Nan, a flirtation. But I am not indisposed to gratify you.
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