‘You will take a little refreshment before you go?’ said the Mayor. ‘Let me offer you a glass of wine.’ ‘No, I thank you, I’d rather not. I am a teetotaler.’ ‘You don’t mean that,’ said the Mayor, who was a brewer, and who had ridden into place and power by means of his barrels; ‘you don’t think a glass of wine wicked, I hope?’ ‘Oh no! I’m not so absurd as all that.’ ‘Such an exciting life as yours must really require a little stimulus; let me give you half a glass,’ said the Vicar. ‘Not a drop, thank you.’ ‘Then you have taken the pledge?’ ‘Oh no!’ said the lady, laughing; ‘I am not so bad as to require that. I am never tempted to drink. If I thought it would do me any good, I would take a glass of wine; but I find I am better without it, and so I don’t.’ ‘What, then, will you take?’ ‘A cup of tea.’ ‘A cup of tea—how provoking! That’s about the only thing we can’t give you here.’ ‘Well, then, I will put up with a glass of water and a sandwich.’ The Mayor was shocked; he had never heard such a request from a lady before. In his distress he appealed to the Vicar for aid. His reverence was equal to the occasion, actually going so far as to quote St. Paul, and to tell how he recommended Timothy to take a glass of wine for his stomach’s sake and his often infirmities. His reverence did more: he enforced his argument by example, taking a glass himself, and at the same time recommending the rest of the committee to do the same. ‘Fine port that,’ said he, smacking his lips and holding up the glass to the light to see the beeswing. ‘Yes,’ said the Mayor; ‘it was a present to the Corporation from Sir Watkin Strahan.’ The lady coloured as she heard the name. It was observed by the committee, whose inferences were not of the most charitable construction. Everyone knew that Sir Watkin was rather fast, and was supposed to have great weaknesses as far as actresses were concerned. The situation was becoming embarrassing. ‘Had we not better be moving?’ asked the lady, rising from her seat. ‘Well,’ said the Mayor, ‘if we start at once, we shall get to the station in ample time.’ The procession was then formed, the Mayor and the lady walking first, the Vicar and the Town Clerk bringing up the rear. Only one of the committee had gone home. He was new to his office; he had made a lot of money in the shoe trade, and had recently retired from business, and was rather doubtful as to the propriety of being seen by daylight walking with an actress in the streets. On they went. The general public, consisting of school-boys out of school, and of the usual loafers who stand idle all the day long in the market-place, or at the corners of public-houses and livery stables, were not a little shocked as the actress from the Royal Theatre, Covent Garden, walked along the streets as an ordinary Mrs. Jones or Brown might have done.