Then he thanked Mrs. Gibson and said pretty things, and finally called Mr. Gibson dreadful French fancy-names: "Cascamèche--moutardier du pape, tromblon-bolivard, vieux coquelicot"; to each of which the delighted Mr. G. answered: "Voos ayt oon ôter--voos ayt oon ôter!" And then Barty whisked himself away in a silver cloud of glory. A good exit! Outside was a hansom waiting, with a carpet-bag on the top, and we got into it and drove up to Hampstead Heath, to some little inn called the Bull and Bush, near North-end. Barty lit his pipe, and said: "What capital people! Hanged if they're not the nicest people I ever met!" "Yes," said I. And that's all that was said during that long drive. At North-end we found two or three other hansoms, and Pepys and Ticklets and the little Hebrew tenor art student whose name I've forgotten, and several others. We had another supper, and made a night of it. There was a piano in a small room opening on to a kind of little terrace, with geraniums, over a bow-window. We had music and singing of all sorts. Even _I_ sang--"The Standard-bearer"--and rather well. My sister had coached me; but I did not obtain an encore. The next day dawned, and Barty had a wash and changed his clothes, and we walked all over Hampstead Heath, and saw London lying in a dun mist, with the dome and gilded cross of St. Paul's rising into the pale blue dawn; and I thought what a beastly place London would be without Barty--but that Leah was there still, safe and sound asleep in Tavistock Square! Then back to the inn for breakfast. Barty, as usual, fresh as paint. Happy Barty, off to Paris! And then we all drove down to London Bridge to see him safe into the Boulogne steamer. All his luggage was on board. His late soldier-servant was there--a splendid fellow, chosen for his length and breadth as well as his fidelity; also the Snowdrop, who was lachrymose and in great grief. It was a most affectionate farewell all round. "Good-bye, Bob. _I_ won that toss--_didn't_ I?" Oddly enough, _I_ was thinking of that, and didn't like it. "What rot! it's only a joke, old fellow!" said Barty. All this about an innocent little girl just fifteen, the daughter of a low-comedy John Gilpin: a still somewhat gaunt little girl, whose budding charms of color, shape, and surface were already such that it didn't matter whether she were good or bad, gentle or simple, rich or poor, sensible or an utter fool. C'est toujours comme ça!