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Updated: June 25, 2025
It stood back from the market-place, and was already lapped by a sea of persons having, as in the outer ring at race meetings, an air of business at which one must not be caught out, together with a soaked or flushed appearance. Mr. Bosengate could not resist putting his handkerchief to his nose.
Bosengate, red in the face, thrust his hands deep into the side pockets of his tunic, and, staring straight before him, said: "Very well; on condition we recommend him to mercy." "What do you say, gentlemen; shall we recommend him to mercy?" "'Ear, 'ear!" burst from the commercial traveller, and from the chemist came the murmur: "No harm in that." "Well, I think there is.
The lugubrious figure vanished, and Mr. Bosengate pictured instead the form of his own wife bending over her "Gloire de Dijon roses" in the rosery, where she generally worked a little before tea now that they were short of gardeners.
His little daughter began to hop and suffocate with laughter. "Oh, Daddy! Aren't you caught! I led you on purpose!" Looking up, Mr. "Oh, yes! Do be a deer, Daddy!" Mr. Bosengate did not see being a deer; his hair had just been brushed. But he entered the rosery buoyantly between his offspring.
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