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Mr. Wogan steered his captive through Petty France. It was about ten of the clock, a night of moonlight and young spring, a night for poets to praise and lovers to enjoy. Mr. Wogan was not, at the moment, a lover, and poetry was out of his mind.
'One trifle I forgot to mention,' he said. 'I saw Montague come out of your new lodgings this evening. He bade his chairmen go to Queen's Square.'