"Good morning, Mr Greyquill," said the young lady, bestowing upon him one of those sweet and gracious smiles with which she favoured nearly all, thus rendering herself as much beloved for her cordial charm of manner as she was admired by the women and adored by the men for her singular beauty of face and graces of person.
He bade her good-morning with profound respect. Her dog barked in his face, and she silenced it by lifting it under her arm.
"I hope your cold is better, Mr Greyquill," said she, making to proceed in her walk.
"Much better—indeed, quite gone, I am greatly obliged to you, ma'am," he answered. "I find nursing of little account. Gruel and foot-baths and a tallow candle for the nose do not help me so much as fresh air. Fresh air seems to dry the cold up."
She agreed with him with a smile, and with a pleasant salutation of the head, walked on.
The old man looked after her, and whispered to himself in admiration of her kindness and person. A wooden-legged sailor just then came up some steps from the river side on to that end of the bridge which the money-lender was approaching, and when Greyquill was close to, the tar, assuming a posture of abject despondency, pulled off his hat, and extending it begged for alms.
"I have bled for my country, your honour," said the man.
"But you don't say you were paid to do so," answered Greyquill.
"Ay, but I wasn't paid to lose my leg," called out the man.