As our travellers entered the city, that bygone class who, as guardians of the night, were appointed to preserve the public peace, every one of them a half felon and whole accomplice, were seen to pace slowly along, their poles under their left arm, their hands mutually thrust into the capacious cuffs of their watchcoats, and each with a frowzy woollen nightcap under his hat.  Here and there a staggering toper might be seen on his way home from the tavern brawl or the midnight debauch, advancing, or attempting to advance, as if he wanted to trace Hogarth’s line of beauty.  From some quarters the wild and reckless shriek of female profligacy might be heard, the tongue, though loaded with blasphemies, nearly paralyzed by intoxication.  Nor can we close here.  The fashionable carriage made its appearance filled with beauty shorn of its charms by a more refined dissipation—­beauty, no longer beautiful, returning with pale cheeks, languid eyes, and exhausted frame—­after having breathed a thickened and suffocating atmosphere, calculated to sap the physical health, if not to disturb the pure elements of moral feeling, principle, and delicacy, without which woman becomes only an object of contempt.

Up until the arrival of the “Fly” at the hotel, the gray dusk of morning, together with the thick black veil to which we have alluded, added to that natural politeness which prevents a gentleman from staring at a lady who may wish to avoid observation—­owing to these causes, we say, the stranger had neither inclination nor opportunity to recognize the features of Lucy Gourlay.  When the coach drew up, however, with that courtesy and attention that are always due to the sex, and, we may add, that are very seldom omitted with a pretty travelling companion, the stranger stepped quickly out of it in order to offer her assistance, which was accepted silently, being acknowledged only by a graceful inclination of the head.  When, however, on leaving the darkness of the vehicle he found her hand and arm tremble, and had sufficient light to recognize her through the veil, he uttered an exclamation expressive at once of delight, wonder, and curiosity.

“Good God, my dear Lucy,” said he in a low whisper, so as not to let his words reach other ears, “how is this?  In heaven’s name, how does it happen that you travel by a common night coach, and are here at such an hour?”

She blushed deeply, and as she spoke he observed that her voice was infirm and tremulous:  “It is most unfortunate,” she replied, “that we should both have travelled in the same conveyance.  I request you will instantly leave me.”

“What! leave you alone and unattended at this hour?”

“I am not unattended,” she replied; “that faithful creature, though somewhat blunt and uncouth in her manners, is all truth and attachment, so far as I at least am concerned.  But I beg you will immediately withdraw.  If we are seen holding conversation, or for a moment in each other’s society, I cannot tell what the consequences may be to my reputation.”