“It’s like Troy!” said a voice of rapture. On one side of the handbill a print of the reigning sovereign, Anne, had been pinned over the portrait of William the Third, whose aquiline nose, keen eyes, and luxuriant wig, were just visible above the diadem of the queen. She shattered the edifice he was building up of himself as a devoted lover, waiting only his chance to win her from a hopeless and consuming passion. The Semitic looking young man opposite, who seems to have been committing you to memory piecemeal, will tell you that he was never so bored in all his life as he has been here. Lucy grabbed his shirtsleeve, whispering on tiptoe. “Couldn’t we three go out and have some coffee somewhere? The thought of that drawing-room paralyses me.
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