" "'Ouns!" ejaculated Terence, in alarm, "would you turn snitch on your old pal, Quilt?" "Ay, if he plays a-cross," returned Quilt. This time, there was no doubt, she did not sleep. Nobody regards Constance or Vee as a delicate trifle. Ed. She could not go to him with a preachment against strong drink; she knew from experience that such a plan would be wasted effort. It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. “Thank you.
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