He filled his pipe slowly. The arrangement had been made by the town matchmaker, a frightening old oak of a man. Should be home soon. Who but you would have dreamed of giving the boy such a name? Why, it's the name of a river, not a Christian. ‘Why have you come in here?’ demanded Melusine, turning on him. From the first there had always been between her and her listeners that electrical sympathy which only a certain order of genius seems able to create. The coachman answered by a surly grunt, and, plying his whip with redoubled zeal, shaped his course down Dyot Street; traversed that part of Holborn, which is now called Broad Street, and where two ancient alms-houses were, then, standing in the middle of that great thoroughfare, exactly opposite the opening of Compston Street; and, diving under a wide gateway on the left, soon reached a more open space, surrounded by mean habitations, coach-houses and stables, called Kendrick Yard, at the further end of which Saint Giles's round-house was situated.
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