“That’s it,” she said. At the same moment a martial flourish, proceeding from cow's horns, tin canisters filled with stones, bladders and cat-gut, with other sprightly, instruments, was struck up, and, enlivened by this harmonious accompaniment, the troop reached its destination in the best possible spirits for an encounter. . While he was stirring his tea, she ran and fetched the comb. The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another. Still, his conscience was partly satisfied. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. White’s boarding-house in Russell Square.
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