The Market-Place. Frederic Harold
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ranged on a stand of Indian workmanship. The sound was delightful, but even more so was the implication that it betokened breakfast.
With inspiration, he drew forth the half-crown which he had been fingering in his pocket, and gave it to the girl as she turned. “That's the kind of concert I like,” he declared, bestowing the patronage of a jovial smile upon her pleased and comely face. “Show me the way to this breakfast that you've been serenading about.”
Out in the greenhouse, meanwhile, Gafferson continued to regard blankly the shrivelled, fatty leaves of the plant he had taken up. “Thorpe,” he said aloud, as if addressing the tabid gloxinia—“Thorpe—yes—I remember his initials—J. S. Thorpe. Now, who's the man that told me about him? and what was it he told me?”
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