“Twenty-two. ’ ‘Well, but he was a deserter, you see. ‘He don’t mean you no harm. They sell only their talents, not their bodies; they are not girls of the street. White——” “No more,” Sydney Courtlaw begged, laughingly. A vein of conviction mingled with his burlesque. She felt he would tell people the way, control traffic, and refuse admission to public buildings with invincible correctness and the very finest explicit feelings possible. Arrived at the audience-chamber, he set down the light upon a stand, threw open the door, and announced in a loud voice, but with the perfect intonation of the person he represented,—"Sir Rowland Trenchard.
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