Where, in the name of the God of Love, was Robert Trewe?
'O, I'm sorry,' said the painter, after their introductory words had been spoken.

'Trewe is a curious fellow, you know, Mrs.Marchmill.

He said he'd come; then he said he couldn't.

He's rather dusty.

We've been doing a few miles with knapsacks, you know; and he wanted to get on home.' 'He--he's not coming ?' 'He's not; and he asked me to make his apologies.' 'When did you p-p-part from him ?' she asked, her nether lip starting off quivering so much that it was like a tremolo-stop opened in her speech.
She longed to run away from this dreadful bore and cry her eyes out.
'Just now, in the turnpike road yonder there.' 'What! he has actually gone past my gates ?' 'Yes.