In an instant the expectant calm of Westminster was ended, and the very Speaker in the chair blenched at the sound of the policemen’s whistles. Her first impulse was to fly to the window; and she was about to pass through it, at the risk of sharing the fate of the unfortunate lady, when her arm was grasped by some one in the act of ascending the ladder from without. Perhaps the old fool was not as fanciful as they had thought. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. “So how about this Friday?” He asked.
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