"But to the point," continued Wild, unconscious of the peril in which the remark had placed him,—"to the point. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. Anna, my love, you cannot have forgotten so soon. Pole coolies came joggling along with bobbing blocks of jade—white jade, splashed and veined with translucent emerald green. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. Scarcely any one entered Mr. What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps.
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