Ireton and Langley had returned from a second unsuccessful search; Marvel had come thither to bid good-night to Mrs. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. He conveyed not only his sense of the extreme want of correctitude in their unsanctioned meetings, but also that, so far as he was concerned, this irregularity mattered not at all, that he had flung—and kept on flinging—such considerations to the wind. Secretly she was gratified to be assigned to the rôle of an old traveller. No good at all. People were passing in the street below.
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