A gust of irrational impatience blew through her being. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. He tries hard to conceal it, but he cannot. The fanatic has no such word in his vocabulary. Using the shirt, she cleaned away the blood. Who could guarantee a safer existence outside Florence? That Sebastian seemed to have a weird immunity to the Pestilence was a trait that went unquestioned, unanswered. Skirting the noble gardens of Montague House, (now, we need scarcely say, the British Museum,) the party speedily reached Great Russell Street,—a quarter described by Strype, in his edition of old Stow's famous Survey, "as being graced with the best buildings in all Bloomsbury, and the best inhabited by the nobility and gentry, especially the north side, as having gardens behind the houses, and the prospect of the pleasant fields up to Hampstead and Highgate; insomuch that this place, by physicians, is esteemed the most healthful of any in London. Behind her stood Caliban, chuckling to himself, and grinning from ear to ear. She dismissed the idea of doing so. ’ Gerald was staring at her, an arrested expression on his face. CHAPTER III.
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