Inaword，hewentoutandateicesatapastry-cook’sshopinCharingCross；triedanewcoatinPallMall；

　　droppedinattheOldSlaughters’，andcalledforCaptainCannon；playedelevengamesatbilliardswiththeCaptain，ofwhichhewoneight，andreturnedtoRussellSquarehalfanhourlatefordinner，butinverygoodhumour。

　　ItwasnotsowitholdMr。Osborne。WhenthatgentlemancamefromtheCity，andwaswelcomedinthedrawing-roombyhisdaughtersandtheelegantMissWirt，theysawatoncebyhisface——whichwaspuffy，solemn，andyellowatthebestoftimes——andbythescowlandtwitchingofhisblackeyebrows，thattheheartwithinhislargewhitewaistcoatwasdisturbedanduneasy。WhenAmeliasteppedforwardtosalutehim，whichshealwaysdidwithgreattremblingandtimidity，hegaveasurlygruntofrecognition，anddroppedthelittlehandoutofhisgreathirsutepawwithoutanyattempttoholditthere。Helookedroundgloomilyathiseldestdaughter；

　　who，comprehendingthemeaningofhislook，whichaskedunmistakably，“Whythedevilisshehere？”saidatonce：

　　“Georgeisintown，Papa；andhasgonetotheHorseGuards，andwillbebacktodinner。”

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