She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. Quilt, who was an ardent lover of mischief, could not help laughing most heartily at the rueful appearance of these personages. Hogarth, and Mr. The lady looked them over in silence, and then pouting lips trembled, dark eyelashes fluttered, and in a broken voice, she pleaded, ‘Honoured messieurs, you will not allow this—this pig, to be thus cruel? He cannot arrest me. ‘Coward,’ she threw at him, brandishing the sword. The night was now advancing, and the party began to think of separating.
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