not affected his spirits, for at sight of Old Jubilee still cropping in
the dusk he stood still and gave utterance to a lively whoop.

The effect of this sobered him. Old Jubilee was not alone. Hurriedly
out of the shadow of the Orphanage wall arose a grey-white figure--a
woman. It seemed that she had been kneeling there. Now, as Mr.
Mortimer advanced, she stood erect, close back against the masonry,
waiting for him to pass.

"'S a female," decided Mr. Mortimer, pulling himself together and
advancing with a hand over his brow, the better to distinguish the
glimmer of her dress. "'S undoubtedly a female. Seems to be looking
for something . . ." He approached and lifted his hat. "Command me,
madam!"

The woman drew herself yet closer under the shadow.

"Go your way, please!" she answered sharply, with a catch of her breath.

"You mishun'erstand. Allow me iggs--I beg pardon, eggs--plain.
Name's Mortimer--Stanislas 'Ratio, of that ilk. A Scotch exshpression."
Here he pulled himself together again, and with an air of anxious
lucidity laid a precise accent on every syllable. "The name, I flatter
myself, should be a guarantee. No reveller, madam, I s'hure you;
appearances against me, but no Bacchanal; still lesh--shtill _less_ I
should iggs--or, if you prefer it, eggs--plain, gay Lothario. Trust me,
ma'am--married man, fifteen years' standing--Arabella--tha's my wife--
never a moment's 'neasiness--"

'Two shouls'--you'll excuse me, souls--' with but a single thought,