’ About to hurry from the little parlour, Melusine remembered Mrs Ibstock. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. . “Dear me! I wonder what I ought to do. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. ” “That’s horrible!” He gasped. What might it have been?’ Mrs Sindlesham shook her head helplessly.
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