‘You don’t favour her, bar the black hair. But one day he came to me. She flew up from her stool and faced the door. “Young lady! Are you sure you’re of legal age to be smoking those cigarettes?” “No, I’m not of legal age. “Your name and address in his pocket was no delusion,” he said sharply. While the cloth was laid, the host and Thames descended to the cellar, whence they returned, laden with a number of flasks of the same form, and apparently destined to the same use as those depicted in Hogarth's delectable print—the Modern Midnight Conversation. Then she turned, and entering the inner room, commenced to dress hastily for the street. What had she so nearly said? She had almost spoken a name—and quickly withdrawn it.
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