THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE
“With more than I can count,” said the Dwarf. “To the health of your lordship!” and he drained his long glass of wine. Lord George replenished it, and asked by what means or miracle he had acquired his mastery of the bow.
“By long practice,” the little thing rejoined; “long practice on human creatures.” And he nodded his curls mysteriously.
“On my heart, you are a dangerous box-mate.”
“Your lordship were certainly a good target.”
Little liking this joke at his bulk, which really rivalled the Regent’s, Lord George turned brusquely in his chair and fixed his eyes upon the stage. This time it was the Gambogi who laughed.
A new operette, The Fair Captive of Samarcand, was being enacted, and the frequenters of Garble’s were all curious to behold the new débutante, Jenny Mere, who was said to be both pretty and talented. These predictions were surely fulfilled, when the captive peeped from the window of her wooden turret. She looked so pale under her blue turban. Her eyes were dark with fear; her parted lips did not seem capable of speech. “Is it that she is frightened of us?” the audience wondered.
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