Spurlock slumped in his chair, weak and empty. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. Montague Hill was taken for the millionaire once or twice, and I suppose it flattered his vanity. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. He was a wonderful little creature with a perfect tiny face, mottled pink cheeks, and eyes brighter than May. I had never dreamed of such a friend as you. They will guess that I am English. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. "It's a fine idea, my child, but you mustn't do it.
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