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Jonathan stepped behind a curtain. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. He refused his food,—and even when better provisions were offered him, rejected them. Few approached the émigrés directly, preferring to stare covertly from behind their fans, while pretending to admire the simple elegance of Lady Bicknacre’s neo-classical refurbishments. "To-morrow I will take you to him. Remain at the door, Nab," he added, loitering for a moment behind the others, "and let no one in, or out. A young woman with a white badge on her arm stood and counted the sections as they entered their vans. Pardon what I have said, Madam. There was a lock, apparently more than a foot wide, strongly plated, and girded to the door with thick iron hoops. Things were thrown here and there, to be taken up, or again cast aside, as the whim arose; while the broken-backed chairs and crazy table bore the marks of many a conflict. "Shall I help you on with it, Sir?" replied the Jew, becoming suddenly respectful. .
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