ne?--You're always here."

"Hush, Woolsey," said Mr. Eglantine to his rival the tailor (for he
was the individual in question); and Woolsey, accordingly, put his
back against the opposite door-post and chequers, so that (with poor
Eglantine's bulk) nothing much thicker than a sheet of paper could pass
out or in. And thus these two amorous caryatides kept guard as the song
continued:--

"Dark is the wood, and wide,
Dangers, they say, betide;
But, at my Albert's side,
Nought, I fear, O my love--O my love!

"Welcome the greenwood tree,
Welcome the forest tree,
Dearest, with thee, with thee,
Nought I fear, O my love--O ma-a-y love!"

Eglantine's fine eyes were filled with tears as Morgiana passionately
uttered the above beautiful words. Little Woolsey's eyes glistened, as
he clenched his fist with an oath, and said, "Show me any singing that
can beat THAT. Cobbler, shut your mouth, or I'll break your head!"

But the cobbler, regardless of the threat, continued to perform the
"Lurlurliety" with great accuracy; and when that was ended, both on his
part and Morgiana's, a rapturous knocking of glasses was heard in the
little bar, then a great clapping of hands, and finally somebody shouted
"Brava!"

"Brava!"

At that word Eglantine turned deadly pale, then gave a start, then a
rush forward, which pinned, or rather cushioned, the tailor against the
wall; then twisting himself abruptly round, he sprang to the door of the
bar, and bounced into that apartment.

"HOW ARE YOU, MY NOSEGAY?" exclaimed the same voice which had shouted
"Brava!" It was that of Captain Walker.

At ten o'clock the next morning, a gentleman, with the King's button
on his military coat, walked abruptly into Mr. Eglantine's shop, and,
turning on Mr. Mossrose, said, "Tell your master I want to see him."

"He's in his studio," said Mr. Mossrose.

"Well, then, fellow, go and fetch him!"

And Mossrose, thinking it must be the Lord Chamberlain, or Doctor
Praetorius at least, walked into the studio, where the perfumer was
seated in a very glossy old silk dressing-gown, his fair hair hanging
over his white face, his double chin over his flaccid whity-brown
shirt-collar, his pea-green slippers on the hob, and on the fire the pot
of chocolate which was simmering for his breakfast. A lazier fellow
than poor Eglantine it would be hard to find; whereas, on the contrary,
Woolsey was