” “Where?” He asked. A deep dread calm, like that which precedes a thunderstorm, now prevailed amongst the assemblage. In olden days it boasted a chapel, dedicated to Saint Thomas; beneath which there was a crypt curiously constructed amid the arches, where "was sepultured Peter the Chaplain of Colechurch, who began the Stone Bridge at London:" and it still boasted an edifice (though now in rather a tumbledown condition) which had once vied with a palace,—we mean Nonesuch House. 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. A shudder rippled across his shoulders. By this time, Jonathan and the vast mob attending him, had come up, and the place was rendered almost as light as day by the links. “Where were you?” He inquired, rubbing her shoulders. Mrs. " Downstairs he sought the hotel manager.
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