FALSE DAWN
had kept a vivid and amused recollection, slightly tinged with disapprobation, of what they had seen—"Oh, those French wenches," the Commodore chuckled through his white teeth—but poor Mr. Kent, who had gone abroad on his honeymoon, had been caught in Paris by the revolution of 1830, had had the fever in Florence, and had nearly been arrested as a spy in Vienna; and the only satisfactory episode in this disastrous, and never repeated, adventure, had been the fact of his having been mistaken for the Duke of Wellington (as he was trying to slip out of a Viennese hotel in his courier's blue surtout) by a crowd who had been—"Well, very gratifying in their enthusiasm," Mr. Kent admitted.
"How my poor brother Julius could have lived in Europe I Well, look at the consequences—" he used to say, as if poor
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