You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. . Her mother missed writing for a week, and then she wrote in an unusual key. Arrived there, their first object was to seek out Davies, by whom they were conducted to the lady's retreat,—a lone habitation, situated on the outskirts of Saint George's Fields in Southwark. . Her head was downcast as she studied the museum-like exhibits of various dusts on the resilient tile flooring. Then to the Feathers, in Drury Lane. When she looked into their eyes, her despair put her beyond tears.
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