“Why do you wear glasses?” began Miss Corny, abruptly as soon as they were indoors.

Another deep flush, and an imperceptible hesitation.

“My eyes are not strong.”

“They look as strong as eyes can look.  But why wear colored glasses?  White ones would answer every purpose, I should suppose.”

“I am accustomed to colored ones.  I should not like white ones now.”

Miss Corny paused.

“What is your Christian name, madame?” began she, again.

“Jane,” replied madame, popping out an unflinching story in her alarm.

“Here!  Here!  What’s up?  What’s this?”

It was a crowd in the street, and rather a noisy one.  Miss Corny flew to the window, Lady Isabel in her wake.  Two crowds, it may almost be said; for, from the opposite way, the scarlet-and-purple party—­as Mr. Carlyle’s was called, in allusion to his colors—­came in view.  Quite a collection of gentlemen—­Mr. Carlyle and Lord Mount Severn heading them.

What could it mean, the mob they were encountering?  The yellow party, doubtless, but in a disreputable condition.  Who or what was that object in advance of it, supported between Drake and the lawyer, and looking like a drowned rat, hair hanging, legs tottering, cheeks shaking, and clothes in tatters, while the mob, behind, had swollen to the length of the street, and was keeping up a perpetual fire of derisive shouts, groans, and hisses.  The scarlet-and-purple halted in consternation, and Lord Mount Severn, whose sight was not as good as it had been twenty years back, stuck his pendent eye glasses astride on the bridge of his nose.

Sir Francis Levison? Could it be?  Yes, it actually was!  What on earth had put him into that state?  Mr. Carlyle’s lip curled; he continued his way and drew the peer with him.

“What the deuce is a-gate now?” called out the followers of Mr. Carlyle.  “That’s Levison!  Has he been in a railway smash, and got drenched by the engine?”

“He has been ducked!” grinned the yellows, in answer.  “They have been and ducked him in the rush pool on Mr. Justice Hare’s land.”

The soaked and miserable man increased his speed as much as his cold and trembling legs would allow him; he would have borne on without legs at all, rather than remain under the enemy’s gaze.  The enemy loftily continued their way, their heads in the air, and scorning further notice, all, save young Lord Vane.  He hovered round the ranks of the unwashed, and looked vastly inclined to enter upon an Indian jig, on his own account.

“What a thundering ass I was to try it on at West Lynne!” was the enraged comment of the sufferer.

Miss Carlyle laid her hand upon the shrinking arm of her pale companion.

“You see him—­my brother Archibald?”

“I see him,” faltered Lady Isabel.

“And you see him, that pitiful outcast, who is too contemptible to live?  Look at the two, and contrast them.  Look well.”