marched quickly and gaily away; and turning into his own chambers
opposite Eglantine's, shop, saluted that establishment with a grin
of triumph. "You wouldn't tell me her name, wouldn't you?" said Mr.
Walker. "Well, the luck's with me now, and here goes."

Two days after, as Mr. Eglantine, with white gloves and a case of
eau-de-Cologne as a present in his pocket, arrived at the "Bootjack
Hotel," Little Bunker's Buildings, Berkeley Square (for it must out-
-that was the place in which Mr. Crump's inn was situated), he
paused for a moment at the threshold of the little house of
entertainment, and listened, with beating heart, to the sound of
delicious music that a well-known voice was uttering within.

The moon was playing in silvery brightness down the gutter of the
humble street. A "helper," rubbing down one of Lady Smigsmag's
carriage-horses, even paused in his whistle to listen to the strain.
Mr. Tressle's man, who had been professionally occupied, ceased his
tap-tap upon the coffin which he was getting in readiness. The
greengrocer (there is always a greengrocer in those narrow streets,
and he goes out in white Berlin gloves as a supernumerary footman)
was standing charmed at his little green gate; the cobbler (there is
always a cobbler too) was drunk, as usual, of evenings, but, with
unusual subordination, never sang except when the refrain of the
ditty arrived, when he hiccupped it forth with tipsy loyalty; and
Eglantine leaned against the chequers painted on the door-side under
the name of Crump, and looked at the red illumined curtain of the
bar, and the vast well-known shadow of Mrs. Crump's turban within.
Now and again the shadow of that worthy matron's hand would be seen
to grasp the shadow of a bottle; then the shadow of a cup would rise
towards the turban, and still the strain proceeded. Eglantine, I