"Where am I?" she cried, passing her hand across her brow. She opened her eyes. On the same day, moreover, which, by a curious coincidence, was the birthday of the Chevalier de Saint George, mobs were collected together in the streets, and the health of that prince was publicly drunk under the title of James the Third; while, in many country towns, the bells were rung, and rejoicings held, as if for a reigning monarch:—the cry of the populace almost universally being, "No King George, but a Stuart!" The adherents of the Chevalier de Saint George, we have said, were lavish in promises to their proselytes. Meat pies with sweet crust were stuffed with macaroni, steaks of pork and beef were pounded thin and grilled rare, capons had been marinated in plum wine and cinnamon, and veal sausages stewed in cream were served over fine noodles: all the dishes that he loved were present. “It’s odd,” said Ann Veronica, re-entering the flat. And some were adorned with engravings that struck her as being more vulgar and undesirable than anything she had ever seen in her life. ‘Shall we abandon the guard, then, sir?’ ‘Certainly not. ” Resigned, she rosined the bow and tightened the loose strings.
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