I had hitherto conceived and partly carried out an ideal that was dear to my heart.

Rowley and I descended from our claret-coloured chaise, a couple of correctly dressed, brisk, bright-eyed young fellows, like a pair of aristocratic mice; attending singly to our own affairs, communicating solely with each other, and that with the niceties and civilities of drill.

We would pass through the little crowd before the door with high-bred preoccupation, inoffensively haughty, after the best English pattern; and disappear within, followed by the envy and admiration of the bystanders, a model master and servant, point-device in every part.

It was a heavy thought to me, as we drew up before the inn at Kirkby-Lonsdale, that this scene was now to be enacted for the last time.

Alas! and had I known it, it was to go of with so inferior a grace! I had been injudiciously liberal to the post-boys of the chaise and four.
My own post-boy, he of the patched breeches, now stood before me, his eyes glittering with greed, his hand advanced.