"'Sdeath! do you trifle with me, sirrah?" cried Rowland fiercely. His idea was to get behind this sustained listlessness. "Of course," rejoined the bystander, who had just spoken, and who was of a cynical turn,—"the greater the rascal, the better they like him. I'll do anything in reason for you, old top; but no pig in a poke. I can no longer bear to address you by that formal madame. “If you say so, Lucy. Well, while we were smoking our pipes, and quaffing our punch, Alsatia turns to me and says, 'Mint,' says he, 'you're well off here. Toys! Delicate trifles! A sex of invalids. ’ ‘I have English a little,’ the girl offered, her voice shaking as she essayed a smile and sank into a curtsy. Now," he added, as his commands were reluctantly obeyed, "help me on with them. ” He adjusted his glasses on his nose.
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