He had a Heine in one pocket against the long, unusual day, a bulging
Tennyson in the other, and a sheaf of English papers under his arm
as he climbed on the trolly, where the whole seven were already seated.

The SEVEN? Even so, Judy had refused to stir without the General,
and had promised "on her life" not to allow any harm to come near him.

Mr. Gillet gave a glance almost of dismay when he found the whole
number was to be present, without the subtraction of the mischievously
disposed ones, or the addition of anyone but himself weighted with
authority. For a moment he distrusted his own powers in such a
situation.

Judy caught the doubting look.

"You're quoting poetry to yourself, Mr. Gillet," she said.

"I?" he said, and looked astonished. "Indeed, no. What makes you
think so, Miss Judy?"

"I can hear it distinctly," she said. "Your eyes are saying it,
and your left ear, not to mention the ends of your moustache."

"Judy!" reproved Meg, whom something had made strangely quiet.

He pretended to be alarmed--shut his eyes, held his left ear,
covered his moustache.

"What can they be saying?" he said.