At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. The wine bubbled and seethed; and the exquisite bouquet of oranges permeated the room. ‘She would say, espéce de diable, this Melusine. You know the sort of thing. The boy would naturally attract the women, if the women were at all romantic. ’” “Is ‘Alcide’ still in Paris?” Ennison asked.
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