" "They're lifting her out of the carriage," interposed Charcam; "will it please your honour to send for some advice and the chaplain?" "Fly for both," returned Sir Rowland, in a tone of bitter anguish. One of the sampans was hailed, and a ropeladder was lowered. He's a Welshman, and I wouldn't for a trifle that any accident befel him. ‘How could you? No wonder mademoiselle is angry with you. “Do you believe me now?” She asked. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. Yes—as he would have liked.
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