you know who that is!" he whispered, when the little window had shut upon them. "It is the impossible."
"Well, I don't like him as much as Sir Thomas Browne, though I shouldn't be surprised if he had even more in him."
"More in him?" He stamped irritably. "By accident you have made the greatest discovery of the century, and all you can say is that there is more in this man. Do you remember those vellum books in my library, stamped with red lilies? This—sit still, I bring you stupendous news!—this is the man who wrote them."
The boy sat quite still. "I wonder if we shall see Mrs. Gamp?" he asked, after a civil pause.
"Mrs.———?"
"Mrs. Gamp and Mrs. Harris. I like Mrs. Harris. I came upon them quite suddenly. Mrs. Gamp's bandboxes have moved over the rainbow so badly. All the bottoms have fallen out, and two of the pippins off her bedstead tumbled into the stream."
"Out there sits the man who wrote my vellum books!" thundered Mr. Bons, "and you talk to me of Dickens and of Mrs. Gamp?"
"I know Mrs. Gamp so well," he apologized.
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