Parbleu, but she was a fool. Where Saint Giles' church stands, once a lazar-house stood; And, chain'd to its gates, was a vessel of wood; A broad-bottom'd bowl, from which all the fine fellows, Who pass'd by that spot, on their way to the gallows, Might tipple strong beer, Their spirits to cheer, And drown in a sea of good liquor all fear! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles! II. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. Teddy handed her into the second-class compartment her season-ticket warranted, and declared she was “simply splendid. “I’ll tell them how much you enjoyed dinner, it would give me great pleasure to tell them that. A bad one in a rough-and-tumble; all the water-front tricks. Just sit down on that stool again and let’s talk of this in cold blood. Arrived in Paris she remembered that she had not the money for a fiacre. Five minutes ago, his butler had entered the green saloon, an austere apartment, with dark forest-green wallpaper flocked with a swirling design, and heavy mahogany furniture. She tried to compose her thoughts, to think of the last six months, to steep herself in the calm beauty of the surroundings. . “Yes,” he said, “I want to get away.
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