‘I wish you joy of the wench. ’ Gerald eyed her. After listening attentively for a short time without drawing breath, he became convinced that his apprehensions were groundless, and, greatly relieved, sat down upon the chair to rest himself and prepare for further efforts. Then, when the tension was getting unendurable, and she was on the verge of speaking to some casual passer-by and demanding help, her follower vanished. He was a stranger. Gay, the poet, who wrote the 'Captives,' which was lately acted at Drury Lane, and was so much admired by the Princess of Wales. "Well, how goes it?" he asked. From the opposite corner under the trees a man with his hat slouched over his eyes stood and glowered at them. ‘Laisse-moi!’ Impatience swamped him.
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