mselves in the Saracen's Head booking-office, securing
a place to Greta Bridge by the next morning's coach. They had to go
westward, to procure some little necessaries for his journey, and, as it
was a fine night, they agreed to walk there, and ride home.

The place they had just been in called up so many recollections, and
Kate had so many anecdotes of Madeline, and Nicholas so many anecdotes
of Frank, and each was so interested in what the other said, and both
were so happy and confiding, and had so much to talk about, that it was
not until they had plunged for a full half-hour into that labyrinth of
streets which lies between Seven Dials and Soho, without emerging into
any large thoroughfare, that Nicholas began to think it just possible
they might have lost their way.

The possibility was soon converted into a certainty; for, on looking
about, and walking first to one end of the street and then to the other,
he could find no landmark he could recognise, and was fain to turn back
again in quest of some place at which he could seek a direction.

It was a by-street, and there was nobody about, or in the few wretched
shops they passed. Making towards a faint gleam of light which streamed
across the pavement from a cellar, Nicholas was about to descend two or
three steps so as to render himself visible to those below and make his
inquiry, when he was arrested by a loud noise of scolding in a woman's
voice.

'Oh come away!' said Kate, 'they are quarrelling. You'll be hurt.'

'Wait one instant, Kate. Let us hear if there's anything the matter,'
returned her brother. 'Hush!'

'You nasty, idle, vicious, good-for-nothing brute,' cried the woman,
stamping on the ground, 'why don't you turn the mangle?'

'So I am, my life and soul!' replied the man's voice. 'I am always
turning. I am perpetually turning, like a demd old horse in a demnition
mill. My life is one demd horrid grind!'

'Then why don't you go and list for a soldier?' retorted the woman;
'you're welcome to.'

'For a soldier!' cried the man. 'For a soldier! Would his joy and
gladness see him in a coarse red coat with a little tail? Would she hear
of his being slapped and beat by drummers demnebly? Would she have him
fire off real guns, and have his hair cut, and his whiskers shaved, and
his eyes turned right and left, and his trousers pipeclayed?'

'Dear Nicholas,' whispered Kate, 'you don't know who that is. It's Mr
Mantalini I am confident.'

'Do make s