"
"That is because you have had a disappointment. I know you, papa," said
Annette.
"Yes, it's rather a damper about old Mart Tinman," her father assented.
"Or else I have n't recovered the shock of smashing that glass, and visit
it on him. But, upon my honour, he's my only friend in England, I have
n't a single relative that I know of, and to come and find your only
friend making a donkey of himself, is enough to make a man think of
eating and drinking."
Annette murmured reproachfully: "We can hardly say he is our only friend
in England, papa, can we?"
"Do you mean that young fellow? You'll take my appetite away if you talk
of him. He's a stranger. I don't believe he's worth a penny. He owns he's
what he calls a journalist."
These latter remarks were hurriedly exchanged at the threshold of
Crickledon's house.
"It don't look promising," said Mr. Smith.
"I didn't recommend it," said Crickledon.
"Why the deuce do you let your lodgings, then?"
"People who have come once come again."
"Oh! I am in England," Annette sighed joyfully, feeling at home in some
trait she had detected in Crickledon.
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