And thereupon Charlie had launched into abuse of what she called the latest masculine fad—prison reform, to wit—and a heated discussion between her and Polyhistor had ensued, in the midst of which she had happened to glance behind her, to find that very notable person who is the subject of this narrative vouchsafing a silent attention to her diatribe. And then—
But at this period to his cogitations Polyhistor's landlady entered with a card, which she presented to his consideration:—
MAJOR JAMES SHRIKE, H.M. PRISON, D——.
All astonishment, Polyhistor bade his visitor up.
He entered briskly, fur-collared, hat in hand, and bowed as he stood on the threshold. He was a very short man—snub-nosed; rusty-whiskered; indubitably and unimpressively a cockney in appearance. He might have walked out of a Cruikshank etching.
Polyhistor was beginning, "May I inquire—" when the other took him up with a vehement frankness that he found engaging at once.
"This is a great intrusion. Will you pardon me? I heard some remarks of yours last night that deeply interested me. I obtained your name and address of our hostess, and took the liberty of—"
"Oh! pray be seated. Say no more. My kinswoman's introduction is all-sufficient. I am happy in having caught your attention in so motley a crowd."
"She doesn't—forgive the impertinence—take herself seriously enough."
"Lady Barbara? Then you've found her out?"