. . “I can tell you are thinking about it. ‘Eh bien, I will tell you. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. The papers are continually wondering what has become of ‘Alcide. There was first the Avenue, which ran in a consciously elegant curve from the railway station into an undeveloped wilderness of agriculture, with big, yellow brick villas on either side, and then there was the pavement, the little clump of shops about the postoffice, and under the railway arch was a congestion of workmen’s dwellings. Ruth crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put a hand on his shoulder. After the dance, they went to a party. “No, you didn’t. “We’ll go together. “I suppose you’ll come to the point soon—if there is one.
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