"It's hidden somewhere. They say as it'll be buried to-night in St.
Martin's Churchyard. So the people'll get their way after all."

"As they mostly do if they make noise enough," rejoined Bolingbroke
refreshing himself with a pinch of snuff.

"Yes, your honour, and----"

The sound of a loud high pitched, strident voice floated into the room
through the open window. Gay, whose eyes had never shifted from the girl
outside, saw her cheeks suddenly blanch. She looked round hurriedly like
a frightened rabbit seeking a way of escape.

"Bring the girl in, landlord," exclaimed the poet hastily. "She'll come
to harm else. Lord! Look at those drunken beasts. No--no"--the landlord
was about to shut the latticed windows--"run to the door, child. Quick."

A howling sottish mob mad with drink, clamouring, gesticulating, men and
women jostling each other, embracing vulgarly, their eyes glassy, their
faces flushed, was approaching the inn.

The mob was headed by a handsome woman. She was in the plenitude of
fleshly charms. Her dress, disordered, showed her round solidly built
shoulders, her ample bust. Some day unless her tastes and her manner of
life altered she would end in a bloway drab, every vestige of beauty
gone in masses of fat. But at that moment she was the model of a
reckless Bacchante, born for the amusement and aggravation of man.

Her maddening eyes were directed on the Maiden Head inn. Her full lips