Inaword，hewentoutandateicesatapastry-cook’sshopinCharingCross；triedanewcoatinPallMall；
droppedinattheOldSlaughters’，andcalledforCaptainCannon；playedelevengamesatbilliardswiththeCaptain，ofwhichhewoneight，andreturnedtoRussellSquarehalfanhourlatefordinner，butinverygoodhumour。
ItwasnotsowitholdMr。Osborne。WhenthatgentlemancamefromtheCity，andwaswelcomedinthedrawing-roombyhisdaughtersandtheelegantMissWirt，theysawatoncebyhisface——whichwaspuffy，solemn，andyellowatthebestoftimes——andbythescowlandtwitchingofhisblackeyebrows，thattheheartwithinhislargewhitewaistcoatwasdisturbedanduneasy。WhenAmeliasteppedforwardtosalutehim，whichshealwaysdidwithgreattremblingandtimidity，hegaveasurlygruntofrecognition，anddroppedthelittlehandoutofhisgreathirsutepawwithoutanyattempttoholditthere。Helookedroundgloomilyathiseldestdaughter；
who，comprehendingthemeaningofhislook，whichaskedunmistakably，“Whythedevilisshehere？”saidatonce：
“Georgeisintown，Papa；andhasgonetotheHorseGuards，andwillbebacktodinner。”