was a fifty guinea set of cameos, the choicest in their way that Howell
and James's had to show him. Moreover, he had sent a Bow-street officer
to Oxford, to make inquiries after Charles: actually, good fortune had
made him at once humanized and happy.

So the chaise rattled up, and the general bounded out, and flew into the
arms of his wondering wife, as Paris might have flown to Helen, or
Leander to his heroine--the only feminine Hero, whom grammar recognises.
It was past eleven at night: therefore he did not think to ask for
Julian; no doubt the boy was gone to bed.

Indeed, he had; and was tossing his wealed body, full of pains, and
aches, and bruises, as softly as he could upon the feather-bed: he had
need of poultices all over, and a quart of Friar's Balsam would have
done him little good: after his well-merited thrashing, the flogged
hound had slunk to his kennel, and locked himself sullenly in, without
even speaking to his mother. Tobacco-fumes exuded from the key-hole, and
I doubt not other creature-comforts lent the muddled man their aid.

However, after the first rush of news to Mrs. Tracy, her lord, who had
every moment been expecting the door to fly open, and Emily to fall into
his arms--for strangely did they love each other--suddenly asked,

"But, where's Emmy all this time! she knows I'm here?--not got to bed,
is she?--knew I was coming?--"

"Oh! general, I'll tell you all about it to-morrow morning."

"About what, madam? Great God! has any harm befallen the child?
Speak--speak, woman!"