the more
as the shape of their raiment, apart from its colour, was both beautiful
and reasonable--veiling the form, without either muffling or caricaturing
it.

Clara was soon mollified; and as we drove along toward the wood before
mentioned, she said to Dick--

"I tell you what, Dick: now that kinsman Hammond the Elder has seen our
guest in his queer clothes, I think we ought to find him something decent
to put on for our journey to-morrow: especially since, if we do not, we
shall have to answer all sorts of questions as to his clothes and where
they came from. Besides," she said slily, "when he is clad in handsome
garments he will not be so quick to blame us for our childishness in
wasting our time in making ourselves look pleasant to each other."

"All right, Clara," said Dick; "he shall have everything that you--that
he wants to have. I will look something out for him before he gets up to-
morrow."

CHAPTER XX: THE HAMMERSMITH GUEST-HOUSE AGAIN

Amidst such talk, driving quietly through the balmy evening, we came to
Hammersmith, and were well received by our friends there. Boffin, in a
fresh suit of clothes, welcomed me back with stately courtesy; the weaver
wanted to button-hole me and get out of me what old Hammond had said, but
was very friendly and cheerful when Dick warned him off; Annie shook
hands with me, and hoped I had had a pleasant day--so kindly, that I felt
a slight pang as our hands parted; for to say the truth, I liked her
better than Clara, who seemed to be always a little on the defensive,
whereas Annie was as frank as could be, and seemed to get honest pleasure
from everything and everybody about her without the least effort.

We had quite a little feast that evening, partly in my honour, and
partly, I suspect, though nothing was said about it, in honour of Dick
and Clara coming together again. The wine was of the best; the hall was
redolent of rich summer flowers; and after supper we not only had music
(Annie, to my mind, surpassing all the others for sweetness and clearness
of voice, as well as for feeling and meaning), but at last we even got to
telling stories, and sat there listening, with no other light but that of
the summer moon streaming through the beautiful traceries of the windows,
as if we had belonged to time long passed, when books were scarce and the
art of reading somewhat rare. Indeed, I may say here, that, though, as
you will have noted, my friends had mostly