I will go to-night. ‘Troops?’ ‘Go, man,’ urged the major in an undervoice. "She's glorious!" He knew that he must hoodwink this keeneyed Scot, even as he must hoodwink everybody: publicly, the devoted husband; privately, the celibate. The villagers were thronging to church. Arrived there, their first object was to seek out Davies, by whom they were conducted to the lady's retreat,—a lone habitation, situated on the outskirts of Saint George's Fields in Southwark. “Dinner is served, m’m,” said the efficient parlor-maid in the archway, and the worst was over.
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