came into collision with a gentleman
of middle age courting digestion as he walked from his trusty dinner at
home to his rubber at the Club: finally he rushed full tilt against a
pot-boy who was bringing all his pots broadside to the flow of the
street. "By Jove! is this what they drink?" he gasped, and dabbed with
his handkerchief at the beer-splashes, breathlessly hailing the
looked-for cab, and, with hot brow and straightened-out forefinger,
telling the driver to keep that carriage in sight. The pot-boy had to be
satisfied on his master's account, and then on his own, and away shot
Wilfrid, wet with beer from throat to knee--to his chief protesting
sense, nothing but an exhalation of beer! "Is this what they drink?" he
groaned, thinking lamentably of the tastes of the populace. All idea of
going near Emilia was now abandoned. An outward application of beer
quenched his frenzy. She seemed as an unattainable star seen from the
depths of foul pits. "Stop!" he cried from the window.

"Here we are, sir," said the cabman.

The carriage had drawn up, and a footman's alarum awakened one of the
houses. The wretched cabman had likewise drawn up right under the windows
of the carriage. Wilfrid could have pulled the trigger of a pistol at his
forehead that moment. He saw that Miss Ford had recognized him, and he at
once bowed elegantly. She dropped the window, and said, "You are in
evening dress, I think; we will take you in with us."

Wilfrid hoped eagerly he might be allowed to hand them to the door, and
made three skips across the mire. Emilia had her hands gathered away from
the chances of seizure. In wild rage he began protesting that he could
not possibly enter, when Georgiana said, "I wish to speak to you," and
put feminine pressure upon him. He was almost on the verge of the word
"beer," by way of despairing explanation, when the door closed behind
him.

"Permit me to say a word to your recent companion. He is my father's
clerk. I had to see him on urgent business; that is why I took this
liberty," he said, and retreated.

Braintop was still there, quietly posted, performing upon his head with a
pocket hair-brush.

Wilfrid put Braintop's back to the light, and said, "Is my shirt soiled?"

After a short inspection, Braintop pronounced that it was, "just a
little."

"Do you smell anything?" said Wilfrid, and hung with frightful suspense
on the verdict. "A fellow upset beer on me."

"It is beer!" sniffed Braintop