that it was. Besides all the best pantomimes are Cinderella. But where was Daddy? Why didn't he make haste? There was Mr. Lover—loud applause—the orchestra was tuning up. Oh, why didn't Daddy—
Oh, joy! Oh, providence! Daddy came into Box B just as Madge was inquiring for him, in his tall hat, fresh from Mincing Lane. A rather tired and sad-looking Daddy, a little hollow in the cheeks and with rings under his eyes, although fortunately Marge didn't notice them. But as soon as he caught sight of the heir to the barony, which his other name is Uncle Phil, a smile seemed to come right over him.
"Damned good of you, old boy," he said, as he hung up his tall hat beside the very latest performance on the part of Messrs. Scott. "Ungodly hour to begin," said Daddy. "Hope you got your lunch all right."
"Ra-ther," said Uncle Phil. "You?"
"Oh, ye-es."
We know what Uncle Phil is, and we are afraid we must say the same of Father.
But Mr. Lover is already under way with his overture.
And then Father asked Marge if she could see, and if Timothy could see, and was the Babe comfortable, and other well-meaning but superfluous questions, almost as it were to convey a sense of his importance. And there was the curtain actually going up, on a field of
