" "Leave you!" echoed the ruffian, with a contemptuous laugh; "—not just yet. " "It shall be at the door in ten minutes. Where was this kindly world she had drawn so rosily in fancy? Disillusion everywhere. I next proceeded to Jenny Bunch's, the Ship, in Trig Lane—there I got the same answer. Five minutes ago, his butler had entered the green saloon, an austere apartment, with dark forest-green wallpaper flocked with a swirling design, and heavy mahogany furniture. All that was needed to complete the simile was that the girl should burst into song. “John,” she declared, “I must eat or die. ” The lights sank, the prelude to the third act was beginning, the music rose and fell in crowded intimations of lovers separated—lovers separated with scars and memories between them, and the curtain went reefing up to display Tristan lying wounded on his couch and the shepherd crouching with his pipe.
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