It was the crowned queen of mountains in her robes of shining white. “You too sing?” he asked. ’ ‘And was not she put out?’ demanded Miss Froxfield with a tinkling laugh. But this was a vicomte’s sister. White leaned forward in her chair with an anxious smile designed to throw oil upon the troubled waters. Spurlock relaxed, suddenly, and sank deeply into his pillows. I thought every one had heard about it. Italians. Should it e'er be my lot to ride backwards that way, At the door of the Crown I will certainly stay; I'll summon the landlord—I'll call for the Bowl, And drink a deep draught to the health of my soul! Whatever may hap, I'll taste of the tap, To keep up my spirits when brought to the crap! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of St. Funny codgers, aren't they?" he said.
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