Edgeworth Bess and Poll Maggot are dying to see you. Every word you utter puzzles me. There was a tearing sound as the canvas gave way, and the precious portrait ripped apart as the top of the Frenchman’s head came through it. " "It'll be over in a few minutes," rejoined Jonathan, impatiently; "in fact, it'll be over too soon for me. Drive away the cat; throw that measure of gin through the window; and tell me why you've not so much as touched the packing-case for Lady Trafford, which I particularly desired you to complete against my return. Jacques, Jacques!’ His face was white, but his eyes were open, if a trifle glazed. He regretted— more deeply than he could say—the occurrence of this evening.
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