olent of the fumes of old Pineapple rum — the snuggery, of course, not the barmaid.

-

Here, too, within reach of the rummery, was a coffee-room, its yard wall lighted by a line of windows propping up a smoke-dried ceiling, their rays falling on a row of white-clothed tables, framed in settles, with pew backs — so high that the fellow in the next pew could by no possible stretch of his neck discover what the fellow in the adjoining pew was having for dinner - unless, of course, he stood on the settle and looked over the top - an unheard of liberty in so well-bred an inn as the "George." And here, scattering every last doubt, was a fireplace before whose cheery blaze hundreds and thousands of shivering shins had been toasted; and a mantel scratched and scarred by the bottoms of countless Tobys that had awaited the thawing out of the countless shins; and there were big, easy, fiddle-backed chairs, with and without arms; and an old, a very old and a very odd clock, one with a history which will be told later on, as big as a coffin, this clock, and shaped the same, to say nothing of papers, books, pipes, writing materials, old prints, rare china, rare plates: - Yes, a most wonderfully inviting and welcoming coffeeroom, so cosy and comfortable that once

you were inside you would never want to get out, and once you were out you would be unhappy until you could again order "a fresh mug of 'alf-and-'alf, my dear, a brace of chops with a kidney, and, if you don't mind, a mealy with its jacket on."

This was my own order, and the landlady herself took it and the seat beside me — and

occupied it at short and long intervals, depending on her duties, after the meal had been served and before it had been eaten.

She was delightful in her talk.

She had told the story, no doubt, to hundreds of others, but it was none the less grateful to my ears. Every line that Charles Dickens had written which in any way made reference to the "George" was stored away in her memory.

"He often came here," she said with a proud toss of her head, "long after the 'Pickwick Papers' were written, so men who knew him have told me. You see, he lived not very far from here when he was a boy - over in Lant Street, near Guy's, and this old courtyard was one of his favourite resorts. That was his table over by the window. The Dickens' Fellowship Club located it for me. They come every year and have dinner - generally on his

birthday - and then it's nothing but 'Mr. Dickens' all over the place."

a

It was easy to follow her I had only to suggest a name or an incident and she was off, And she was good to look at as she talked hearty, well-built, alert woman, ruddy and strong, with an air about her of being in charge, of letting nothing in the management of the house slip by unnoticed, and of always being concerned about your comfort.

"I should so love to have seen him," she continued. "I've seen a lot of men in my time (she is still single) but there is no one I'd rather have met than Mr. Dickens, and I've been here nearly thirty-five years."

I made an incredulous movement with my eyelids, and in explanation suggested:

"You must have been a child when you came."

"No," she laughed, "I was in my best dancing days."

That is as near as I came to her age, but I can say confidentially, whatever it was, "she didn't look it."

"When you finish your coffee come up-stairs with me," she broke in again, removing a Cheshire cheese as big as a bandbox in answer to a call for a portion of its contents from the