The road from Surbiton and Epsom ran under the arch, and, like a bright fungoid growth in the ditch, there was now appearing a sort of fourth estate of little redand-white rough-cast villas, with meretricious gables and very brassy windowblinds. "'T is he!" he mentally ejaculated. I had consecrated my life to His Work; and I took the primrose path. Sir John felt that after all forty-five was not so very old. It had rained during the night, and the patch-work pavement was greasy with mud. Deserted by his older companion in iniquity, and instigator to crime, he did not know what might become of him; nor, as we have observed, was the sad spectacle he had just witnessed, without effect. .
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