" "Entreat a fiddlestick!" retorted Mrs. Over the sea of heads arose a black and dismal object. “Then why the devil,” he demanded, “do you let me stand you dinners and the opera—and why do you come to a cabinet particuliar with me?” He became radiant with anger. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. “Don’t you get it, Lucy? I’ve always thought he was an idiot. “God in Heaven, Annabel!” he cried. It would be easy enough for me to write an eloquent letter about something else. But these fears, like those he had recently experienced, speedily vanished, and he prepared to return to the roof, congratulating himself that owing to the opportune falling of the bricks, he had in all probability escaped serious injury. He measured out the portion of another peg, the bottle wavering in his hand. The evening was warm and inviting, one meant to be spent outdoors. He answered with the greatest assurance, that he knew nothing whatever of the matter—had seen no pocket-book, and no associate to give up. One or two of the tables were occupied by groups of fat frowzy women in flat caps, with rings on their thumbs, and baskets by their sides; and no one who had listened for a single moment to their coarse language and violent abuse of each other, would require to be told they were fish-wives from Billingsgate.
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