A tourist caravan of four pole-chairs jogged along a narrow street. I mean Miss Charvill no harm. "What's that you're taking to Sir Rowland Trenchard's?" "Only a box, Sir," answered Sheppard, emptying the glass. "Do they treat you ill?" asked her son. These little squares of coloured paper interested her mightily—hotel labels. The land about these walls is a common graveyard. Tickle the ears of their reverences with any idle nonsense you please: but tell them nothing you care to have repeated. "No; I don't think I'd laugh.
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