THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE
dance a little, or pick a quarrel. When he tired of such fooling, he would proceed to his box in the tiny al fresco theatre and patronise the jugglers, pugilists, play-actors and whatever eccentric persons happened to be performing there.
The stars were splendid and the moon as beautiful as a great camelia one night in May, as his lordship laid his arms upon the cushioned ledge of his box and watched the antics of the Merry Dwarf, a little, curly-headed creature, whose debut it was. Certainly Garble had found a novelty. Lord George led the applause, and the Dwarf finished his frisking with a pretty song about lovers. Nor was this all. Feats of archery were to follow. In a moment the Dwarf reappeared with a small, gilded bow in his hand and a quiverful of arrows slung at his shoulder. Hither and thither he shot these vibrant arrows, very precisely, several into the bark of the acacias that grew about the overt stage, several into the fluted columns of the boxes, two or three to the stars, The audience was delighted. “Bravo! Bravo Saggitaro!” murmured Lord George, in the language of La Gambogi, who was at his side. Finally, the waxen figure of a man was carried on by an assistant and propped against the trunk of a tree.
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