"Every inch of it," replied the woollen-draper. “You will be so good as to leave us your correct name and address, mademoiselle,” he said curtly. She descended the stairs, and found herself at last in the street—alone. Barleycorn had sent to the mat for the count of nine: unless the young fool's daddy had a bundle of coin. ’ ‘Merci,’ she sighed and, surrendering at last to his oft-proffered aid, allowed her head to droop onto his chest. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. " "You may go, and welcome, Madam!" rejoined Kneebone, spitefully. .
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