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" "Is this true, Sir?" cried Mrs. I guess we could go for a ride. “Sebastianus? Where did my husband go?” He smiled at her gently, patronizingly, as he prevented her from movement or escape. Here he halted; and, looking upwards, read, at the foot of an immense sign-board, displaying a gaudily-painted angel with expanded pinions and an olive-branch, not the name he expected to find, but that of WILLIAM KNEEBONE, WOOLLENDRAPER. Not a moment is to be lost. The rejection caught him like a slap in the face. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet.
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