‘Peste,’ she wailed, as Emile dropped to the floor, ducking down. Could you come to tea at my rooms one afternoon, or would you dine with me somewhere, and do a theatre? We could have a private room, of course, if you do not wish to be seen about London, and a box at the theatre. “Were you ever in love, aunt?” she asked. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. Such was the condition of his mind that the danger exhilarated rather than depressed him. Befuddle yourself, if you want to.
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