“MY DEAR GIRL,— “I am so sorry if we made asses of ourselves to-night. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. Hers was beauty on a large scale no doubt; but it was beauty, nevertheless: and the carpenter thought her eyes as bright, her complexion as blooming, and her figure (if a little more buxom) quite as captivating as when he led her to the altar some twenty years ago. You are going to accept a post as chorus girl, or super, or something of that sort. She made a slow tour of the front of the house without success, and then started back along the rooms behind, dragging open the drapes each time to get just enough light to recognise what was on the walls. He was indeed still in the throes of his bewilderment. “I do not know any one of that name.
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