If Mrs. Farnaby could have been forewarned that she was standing in that assembly of strangers, not as one of themselves, but as a woman with a formidable danger hanging over her head--or if she had only happened to look towards Phoebe, and had felt a passing reluctance to submit herself to the possibly insolent notice of a discharged servant--she might have gone out with her husband, and might have so escaped the peril that had been lying in wait for her, from the fatal moment when she first entered the hall. As it was she refused to move. “You forget the public discussion,” she said. “Wait and see what sort of fight Amelius makes of it when the lecture is over.” She spoke loud enough to be heard by some of the people seated nearest to her. Phoebe, critically examining the dresses of the few ladies in the reserved seats, twisted round on the bench, and noticed for the first time the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Farnaby in their dim corner. “Look!” she whispered to Jervy, “there’s the wretch who turned me out of her house without a character, and her husband with her.” Jervy looked round, in his turn, a little doubtful of the accuracy of his sweetheart’s information. “Surely they wouldn’t come to the sixpenny places,” he said. “Are you certain it’s Mr. and Mrs. Farnaby?” He spoke in cautiously-lowered tones; but Mrs. Sowler had seen him look back at the lady and gentleman in the corner, and was listening attentively to catch the first words that fell from his lips. “Which is Mr. Farnaby?” she asked. “The man in the corner there, with the white silk wrapper over his mouth, and his hat down to his eyebrows.” Mrs. Sowler looked round for a moment--to make sure that Jervy’s man and her man were one and the same. “Farnaby?” she muttered to herself, in the tone of a person who heard the name for the first time. She considered a little, and leaning across Jervy, addressed herself to his companion. “My dear,” she whispered, “did that gentleman ever go by the name of Morgan, and have his letters addressed to the George and Dragon, in Tooley-street?” Phoebe lifted her eyebrows with a look of contemptuous surprise, which was an answer in itself. “Fancy the great Mr. Farnaby going by an assumed name, and having his letters addressed to a public-house!” she said to Jervy. Mrs. Sowler asked no more questions. She relapsed into muttering to herself, under her breath. “His whiskers have turned gray, to be sure--but I know his eyes again; I’ll take my oath to it, there’s no mistaking _his_ eyes!” She suddenly appealed to Jervy. “Is Mr. Farnaby rich?” she asked. “Rolling in riches!” was the answer. “Where does he live?” Jervy was cautious how he replied to that; he consulted Phoebe. “Shall I tell her?” Phoebe answered petulantly, “I’m turned out of the house; I don’t care what you tell her!” Jervy again addressed the old woman, still keeping his information in reserve. “Why do you want to know where he lives?” “He owes me money,” said Mrs. Sowler.