Constantine, with two bailiffs
behind him, walking down Fleet Street! And, besides, I verily believe
he said he had irons on."
"No, no!" ejaculated Mary, with a cry of terror, at this _ad
libitum_ of Euphemia's; "what can he have done?"
"Bless me!" returned Euphemia, staring at her pale face; "why, what
frightens you so? Does not everybody run in debt, without minding
it?"
Miss Beaufort shook her head, and looking distractedly about, put her
hand to her forehead. Euphemia, determining not to be outdone in
"tender woe," drew forth her handkerchief, and putting it to her
eyes, resumed in a piteous tone--
"I am sure I shall hate Lascelles all my life, because he did not
stop the men and inquire what jail they were taking him to? You know,
my clear, you and I might have visited him. It would have been
delightful to have consoled his sad hours! We might have planned his
escape."
"In irons!" ejaculated Mary, raising her tearless eyes to heaven.
Euphemia colored at the agonized manner in which these words were
reiterated, and rather confusedly replied, "Not absolutely in irons.
You know that is a metaphorical term for captivity."
"Then he was not in irons?" cried Miss Beaufort, seizing her hand
eagerly: "for Heaven's sake, tell me he was not in irons? '"'
"Why, then," returned Euphemia, half angry at being obliged to
contradict herself, "if you are so dull of taste, and cannot
understand poetical language, I must tell you he was not.
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