Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. His eyes were fixed upon the tablecloth. Upon the steps leading to the gates of the church stood two persons whom Jack instantly recognised. "Excuse me," he said, plunging his fork into a fowl, and transferring it to his plate. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. I’m not mad that he has eyes for you instead of me, not mad at all. A wide terrace then led to large iron gates,' over which were placed the two celebrated figures of Raving and Melancholy Madness, executed by the elder Cibber, and commemorated by Pope in the Dunciad, in the wellknown lines:— "Close to those walls where Folly holds her throne, And laughs to think Monroe would take her down, Where, o'er the gates, by his famed father's hand, Great Cibber's brazen, brainless brothers stand. .
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