Nancy was tempted to lean forward and say, 'How do you know?' But
the jest seemed to involve her in too much familiarity with Mr
Barmby; for her own peace it was better to treat him with all
possible coldness.

A woman near her talked loudly about the procession, with special
reference to a personage whom she called 'Prince of Wiles.' This
enthusiast declared with pride that she had stood at a certain
street corner for seven hours, accompanied by a child of five years
old, the same who now sat on her lap, nodding in utter weariness;
together they were going to see the illuminations, and walk about,
with intervals devoted to refreshments, for several hours more.
Beyond sat a working-man, overtaken with liquor, who railed
vehemently at the Jubilee, and in no measured terms gave his opinion
of our Sovereign Lady; the whole thing was a 'lay,' an occasion for
filling the Royal pocket, and it had succeeded to the tune of
something like half a million of money, wheedled, most of it, from
the imbecile poor. 'Shut up!' roared a loyalist, whose patience
could endure no longer. 'We're not going to let a boozing blackguard
like you talk in that way about 'er Majesty!' Thereupon, retort of
insult, challenge to combat, clamour from many throats, deep and
shrill. Nancy laughed, and would rather have enjoyed it if the men
had fought.

At Westminster Bridge all jumped confusedly into the street and ran
for the pavement. It was still broad daylight; the sun--a
potentate who keeps no Jubilee--dropping westward amid the hues of
summer eventide, was unmarked, for all his splendour, by the roaring
multitudes.