It can wait a bit longer. Burn your palette and your easel. ‘Bête. ‘What has that to say to anything?’ ‘Nothing at all,’ smiled Lucy nervously. Probably something he had eaten. We are linked together in this matter, and must go through with it. While this took place, while Quilt thundered at the inner door, and Jack drew back the bolts of the outer, a deep, manly voice was heard chanting—as if in contempt of the general uproar—the following strain:— With pipe and punch upon the board, And smiling nymphs around us; No tavern could more mirth afford Than old Saint Giles's round-house! The round-house! the round-house! The jolly—jolly round-house! "The jolly, jolly round-house!" chorussed Sheppard, as the last bar yielded to his efforts. .
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