One glance swept across the place and it was immediately apparent that Pottiswick had not, this time, been mistaken. ’ ‘What sort of “down on your luck”?’ asked Alderley. We were only—les autres. The houses were older, the shops gloomier, and the thoroughfare narrower, it is true; but the bustle, the crowd, the street-like air was the same. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. “Call me Cathy, John. He was looking pale and ill. His tongue was more ready, his wit more keen than usual. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. Not part with him!" added he aloud.
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