“I have never yet met a man whose intellect I could respect. Do you know whoso portrait this is?" "I do not," replied Thames, repressing his tears, "but I believe it to be the portrait of my father. But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back. Everywhere I went and rapped at a door I found behind it another dreadful dingy woman—another fallen queen, I suppose— dingier than the last, dirty, you know, in grain. "I am, Charcoal. She had gladly lowered her eyes as she had been instructed to in front of the fine ladies and lords, as she was more interested in their clothing and fripperies than their faces. Two or three podgy-looking old men with wives to match, half-a-dozen overdressed girls, and a couple of underdressed American ones, who still wore the clothes in which they had been tramping half over London since breakfast time.
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