"We don't go to-morrow. When Rugge sends for us (as he will do at
daybreak), say so. You shall lodge us a few days longer, and then--and
then--my little Sophy, kiss me, kiss me! You are saved at least from
those horrid painted creatures!"

"Ah, ah!" growled Merle from below, "he has got the money! Glad to hear
it. But," he added, as he glanced at sundry weird and astrological
symbols with which he had been diverting himself, "that's not it. The
true horary question, is, WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT?"




CHAPTER IX.

The historian shows that, notwithstanding the progressive spirit of
the times, a Briton is not permitted, without an effort, "to
progress" according to his own inclinations.

Sophy could not sleep. At first she was too happy. Without being
conscious of any degradation in her lot amongst the itinerant artists of
Mr. Rugge's exhibition,--how could she, when her beloved and revered
protector had been one of those artists for years?--yet instinctively she
shrank from their contact. Doubtless, while absorbed in some stirring
part, she forgot companions, audience, all, and enjoyed what she
performed,--necessarily enjoyed, for her acting was really excellent,
and where no enjoyment there no excellence; but when the histrionic
enthusiasm was not positively at work, she crept to her grandfather with
something between loathing and terror of the "painted creatures" and her
own borrowed tinsel.