table by the spasmodic and fortunate catch which their wearer brought off.
"Oh," she cried, "but what a picture it makes! The Archdeak at twenty-one—his whiskers just sprouting—clad in his first swallow-tails and quite the conquering young Lothario—propelled (with trunk) through the front door of No. 42, Onslow Gardens, and pelted with his possessions, as he sits on the pavement, from an upper story window, by the brothers Saunderson, the outraged Lucy encouraging them from the drawing-room balcony, and all the dance-guests cheering madly at the descent of each article. Ah, vieux satyr, je te connais enfin. I always knew the Archdeak had been a bad lad in his day. But I'm afraid, Mr. Pankhurst," she went on, wiping her eyes, "that this won't quite do. We want something a bit tougher. Something that we can really frighten him with."
