It became a sort of duel at last between them, and all the others sat and listened—every one, that is, except the Alderman, who had got the blond young man into a corner by the green-stained dresser with the aluminum things, and was sitting with his back to every one else, holding one hand over his mouth for greater privacy, and telling him, with an accent of confidential admission, in whispers of the chronic struggle between the natural modesty and general inoffensiveness of the Borough Council and the social evil in Marylebone. "Why, first," rejoined Austin, "there's Sir James Thornhill, historical painter to his Majesty, and the greatest artist of the day. They crossed the Channel in sunshine and a breeze that just ruffled the sea to glittering scales of silver. There's our young friend upstairs. Of course I know nothing of what really did happen in Paris—if even you ever saw him there. "So the wheelman told you? I've always spoken it, though I can neither read nor write it.
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