He was clad with a striking simplicity.
His sole garments were a stock of nine inches in height, and a nearly-
new drab overcoat which had formerly been in the service of the
tall, stately, and illustrious Dr. Moneypenny. It was a good overcoat.
It was well cut. It was well made. The coat was nearly new. Pompey
held it up out of the dirt with both hands.
There were three persons in our party, and two of them have
already been the subject of remark. There was a third- that person was
myself. I am the Signora Psyche Zenobia. I am not Suky Snobbs. My
appearance is commanding. On the memorable occasion of which I speak I
was habited in a crimson satin dress, with a sky-blue Arabian
mantelet. And the dress had trimmings of green agraffas, and seven
graceful flounces of the orange-colored auricula. I thus formed the
third of the party. There was the poodle. There was Pompey. There
was myself. We were three. Thus it is said there were originally but
three Furies- Melty, Nimmy, and Hetty- Meditation, Memory, and
Fiddling.
Leaning upon the arm of the gallant Pompey, and attended at a
respectable distance by Diana, I proceeded down one of the populous
and very pleasant streets of the now deserted Edina. On a sudden,
there presented itself to view a church- a Gothic cathedral- vast,
venerable, and with a tall steeple, which towered into the sky. What
madness now possessed me? Why did I rush upon my fate? I was seized
with an uncontrollable desire to ascend the giddy pinnacle, and then
survey the immense extent of the city.
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