“What’s your name?”
“Perdita.”
“Perdita? Rum name, that! What’s your lay?”
“Nothing, in particular.”
“Flush, eh? Made a haul?”
Perdita nodded.
“Hello! you,” said the man, raising his voice, “fetch ’arf a pint for this lady.”
The ale was brought, and Perdita raised it to her lips, saying, “Here’s your health!”
“Same to you, my dear,” said the man, taking a gulp from his pewter. “By G——! you’re one of the right sort. Do you know who I am?”
Perdita looked at him. “You’re a stout fellow,” she said; “you look as if you could take your own part. Are you a highwayman?”