Then to Martin's brandy-shop, in Fleet Street. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. A thousand eager assistants pressed behind him. “Come, we must go home and have some luncheon. She made a few protests, a few excuses for her action in accepting him, a few lame explanations, but he did not heed them or care for them. His brows drew a little nearer together. Either ignorant of the accident, or heedless of it, the foremost horseman pursued his way without even turning his head. "Rowland," she said, in a faint voice, "I have not many minutes to live. "However, I'll refresh your memory.
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