Leicester took off his coat, waistcoat, boots and stockings and quietly joined the crew at their task of setting the sails.
It was his wisest course of action, for had he been left idle and fettered with nothing to do but to think and dwell upon his position he must have gone mad.
It is a beautiful spring morning, and the London season is, like the time of year, just at its greenest and most verdant state.
This afternoon the Lady's Mile in the park is tolerably full, and the loungers against the railings especially numerous.
At the corner, near the old elm, leans little Tommy Gossip; everybody knows Tommy, and, what is worse, Tommy knows everybody and everything.
"Who's that, my dear boy?" says Tommy, as a green chariot dashes by, in which are seated a stout elderly lady and a companion; "that's the Duchess of St. Clare," and he lifts his hat. "She's the queen of fashion, my boy, and can make or mar a reputation with a word. Jingo! how she paints! Ha!" And here Tommy Gossip brightens up into a state of mild excitement. "Here she is!"
"Who?" asked the lad at his side.
"Who? Why the beauty of the day, the new belle, the Ice Queen, as Madam White called her. By St. George, she grows more beautiful every day—and more pale."
And as he spoke he raised his hat, with an emphasis of reverence and eagerness, to an open carriage which slowly passed by.