The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. There'll be a fall of above twelve foot o' water, and think o' that on a night as 'ud blow a whole fleet to the devil. ‘Peste,’ she wailed, as Emile dropped to the floor, ducking down. She never expected to get her ladyship home alive. He was an outside broker and the proprietor of a financial newspaper; he had come up very rapidly in the last few years, and Mr.
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