‘Get you invited to a party where the French émigrés will be present? Nothing easier, dear boy. Lucia confined herself to her quarters, wondering when they would flee to the country as so many other houses had done. But we've got to cook up some kind of a story to protect her. Where Saint Giles' church stands, once a lazar-house stood; And, chain'd to its gates, was a vessel of wood; A broad-bottom'd bowl, from which all the fine fellows, Who pass'd by that spot, on their way to the gallows, Might tipple strong beer, Their spirits to cheer, And drown in a sea of good liquor all fear! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles! II. “No, he wouldn’t come here of all places—just now. Gentlemen! a glass of brandy will be no bad finish to our meal.
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