Their chit-chat stopped when they reached the bench. On the present occasion, he appeared to have bestowed more than ordinary attention on his toilette. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. “We have a small studio,” she murmured, “in the Rue de St. "Never throw away a chance," thought Jonathan.
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