"Charles'll never be elected, if he talks to 'em so slow," commented Mr. Blewforth with a shake of his burly head.
"I say, I am sensibly flattered."
"That's all very fine, Mr. Lovely, but what about my bill?" shouted Mr. Filigree who being better able to stand a loss was bolder than his companions.
"Ay—yes—to be sure, your money," Charles started off again. "Well, gentlemen, I say, gentlemen, money is a very wonderful thing. It is the panacea or cure of all earthly ills, like sleep in the play it knits up the ravelled sleeve of care. Money! to be sure!"
"He's trying to make 'em swallow the new taxes," said Blewforth sagely.
At that moment somebody twitched Mr. Lovely's coat from behind, and he retired from the open window; the angry snuff-coloured crowd looked at each other, conferred for a moment, then pattered quickly back by the way they had come. From the tangle of their murmured confabulations, two ominous words floated back to the Lieutenant and little Peter Wingfield—'Sheriff's Officers!'
It was Clare's announcement of the arrival of Betty in the best parlour of the Blue Boar that had distracted Charles' attention from his creditors. He found her trembling from head to foot and playing with the buttons of her scarlet cloak.
"My young mistress, your honour, my pretty lamb has gone."
"Miss Courteen?"
"Little Miss Phyllida."