She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. From the further end of the apartment came the low music of a violin. The intruder was handsomely, even richly, attired in a scarlet riding-suit, embroidered with gold; a broad belt, to which a hanger was attached, crossed his shoulders; his boots rose above his knee, and he carried a laced hat in his hand. ‘You cannot mean General Charvill?’ ‘That old martinet?’ exclaimed Roding.
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