"Gracious Heaven!—is she the inmate of a mad-house?" "She is, Sir," answered the woollen-draper, sadly, "driven there by her son's misconduct. ‘So now you may safely cease your roundaboutation, and tell me what took you to Remenham House. For hats that fail and hats that flare; Toppers their universal wear; A man scores always, everywhere. They sat down at the dining room table which seemed empty and 259 huge in the stark, white-walled room. "I can't tell you!" she replied, blushing deeply, and clinching her little hand as tightly as possible; "it's a secret!" "I'll soon find it out, then," he returned, playfully forcing the paper from her grasp.
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