It was noon when the caravan reached the tower of the water-clock. Lady Trafford uttered a prolonged scream, and fainted. ‘Of course not,’ snapped his friend. Work becomes distasteful; one thinks of holidays. Gay, the poet, who wrote the 'Captives,' which was lately acted at Drury Lane, and was so much admired by the Princess of Wales. She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. The winter had turned sea and sky to a wet gray. Its walled heaved with black mildew and sea-salt. " The woollen-draper made no answer, but hastily starting up, bolted the door. “I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said. “I am. ” “You gave it him well. “Come, we must go home and have some luncheon.
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