I didn’t allow myself to see things as they were in those days; now I do. Solomon Smith, chapmen, (or what in modern vulgar parlance would be termed bagmen) travelling to procure orders for the house of an eminent cloth manufacturer in Manchester. He was sipping a glass of cold gin and water, and smoking a short black pipe. Gerald, whose French was adequate from his military service abroad, was able to respond suitably to such remarks as the ladies addressed to him, but was less exercised by their fashionable dress than their decidedly careworn appearance. The horns were the worst, slipping in and out of tune and rushing the easy sections, fighting everyone else. “I do not blame him. Do help me, Lady Ferringhall.
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