"Too late, master," replied the landlord of the Trumpeter, in a surly tone, for he did not much like the appearance of his customer; "just shut up shop. And imprinting a kiss upon his mother's cold lips, he left the room. She was carefree. But about his unknown rival he was acutely curious. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. If you don’t think it would be a social outrage, perhaps I might walk with you to your railway station. As pretty as its owner.
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