I tried the same thing, and up to the present, at any rate, it seems to go quite Well." "That's queer," Mr.Waddington murmured.

"Do you know," he continued, dropping his voice and looking around him anxiously, "that I've taken to reading Ruskin?
I've got a copy of 'The Seven Lamps' at the office, and I can't keep away from it.

I slip it into my drawer if any one comes in, like an office boy reading the Police Gazette.

All the time I am in the streets I am looking at the buildings, and, Burton, this is the extraordinary part of it, I know no more about architecture than a babe unborn, and yet I can tell you where they're wrong, every one of them.
There are some streets I can't pass through, and I close my eyes whenever I get near Buckingham Palace.

On the other hand, I walked a mile the other day to see a perfect arch down in South Kensington, and there are some new maisonettes in Queen Anne Street without a single erring line." Burton poured himself out a glass of wine from the bottle which his companion had ordered.
"Mr.Waddington," he said, "this is a queer thing that has happened to us." "Not a soul would believe it," the auctioneer assented.