"No, I tell you," rejoined Jonathan, shouldering his way out of the crowd. Here, indeed, was a type with which he had never until now come into contact—a natural woman. "When a man reaches the lowest scale through drink, we call him a beachcomber. I fancy that this is a little more than playing at Bohemianism. Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve found her!’ ‘Ah, Gérard,’ uttered the girl in a gratified tone as Major Alderley walked through into the light.
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