jingling of tram-car
bells. Public-houses sent forth their alcoholic odours upon the hot air.
Samuel Barmby, joyous in his protectorship of two young ladies, for
he regarded Horace as a mere boy, bustled about them whilst they stood
waiting for the arrival of the Westminster car.

'It'll have to be a gallant rush! You would rather be outside, wouldn't
you, Miss. Lord? Here it comes: charge!'

But the charge was ineffectual for their purpose. A throng of far more
resolute and more sinewy people swept them aside, and seized every
vacant place on the top of the vehicle. Only with much struggle did they
obtain places within. In an ordinary mood, Nancy would have resented
this hustling of her person by the profane public; as it was, she half
enjoyed the tumult, and looked forward to get more of it along the
packed streets, with a sense that she might as well amuse herself in
vulgar ways, since nothing better was attainable. This did not, however,
modify her contempt of Samuel Barmby; it seemed never to have occurred
to him that the rough-and-tumble might be avoided, and time gained, by
the simple expedient of taking a cab.

Sitting opposite to Samuel, she avoided his persistent glances by
reading the rows of advertisements above his head. Somebody's 'Blue;'
somebody's 'Soap;' somebody's 'High-class Jams;' and behold, inserted
between the Soap and the Jam--'God so loved the world, that He gave His
only-begotten Son, that whoso believeth in Him should not perish, but
have everlasting life.' Nancy perused the passage without perception of
incongruity, without emotion of any kind. Her religion had long since
fallen to pieces, and universal defilement of Scriptural phrase by
the associations of the market-place had in this respect blunted her
sensibilities.

Barmby was talking to Jessica Morgan. She caught his words now and then.

'Can you tell me what is the smallest tree in the world?--No, it's the
Greenland birch. Its full-grown height is only three inches--positively!
But it spreads over several feet.'

Nancy was tempted to lean forward and say, 'How do you know?' But the
jest seemed to involve her in too much familiarity with Mr Barmby; for
her own peace it was better to treat him with all possible coldness.

A woman near her talked loudly about the procession, with special
reference to a personage whom she called 'Prince of Wiles.' This
enthusiast declared with pride that she had stood at a certain street
corner for