"No, Sir Rowland," replied the attendant, "as you proposed to ride to Saint Albans to-night, I thought you might choose to see him yourself. The world isn't real yet; she hasn't comparisons by which to govern her acts. My reception at West Kensington you know of. Let me lie in Willesden churchyard. He was a man who in all things classified without nuance, and for him there were in the matter of age just two feminine classes and no more—girls and women. “Another young woman, I suppose,” he said, “who knows better than her Maker about her place in the world. And Blueskin, who, for a moment, had looked round distrustfully, concluding it was a feint, now laughed louder than ever.
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