The Master of the Ceremonies. Fenn George Manville

through the note rapidly, and then refolding it.

      “Oh, I say, auntie, what does he say?” said the girl with her eyes sparkling. “Is it about love?”

      “Don’t ask questions, and you will not get strange answers,” said Miss Clode austerely, as she deftly melted the wax once more, and applied the well-made bread seal, after which there was nothing to show that the letter had been opened. “I see, though, that it was quite time I did trust you, my dear, and I hope I shall have no cause to repent.”

      Just then a customer entered the shop, and again Miss Clode went to attend.

      “I know it was a love-letter,” said Annie quickly; “and it was Sir Harry Payne wrote it. I wonder who it was to. I wish he’d make love to me.”

      Miss Clode came back directly with a volume of poems in her hand – a new copy, and looking significantly at her niece she said:

      “I’m going to post that letter, my dear. Don’t you touch it, mind.”

      As she spoke she thrust the note between the leaves, and then walked into the shop with her niece, and placed the book upon a shelf.

      “There, if you behave yourself you shall see who buys those poems; but, once more, never a word to a soul.”

      “Oh, no, auntie, never,” said the girl, with her big eyes rolling. “But oh, I say, auntie, isn’t it fun?”

      “Isn’t what fun?”

      “I know,” giggled the girl; “there was a letter in that card-case you sold. I saw you put it there.”

      “Well, well, perhaps there was, my dear. I must oblige customers, and the profits on things are so small, and rents so high. We must live, you see. And now mind this: if Mrs Frank Burnett comes, you call me.”

      “Couldn’t I sell her that volume of poems, auntie?” said the girl eagerly.

      “No, certainly not; and now look here, miss. Don’t you ever pretend to be simple any more.”

      “No, auntie,” said the girl, “I won’t;” and she drew her breath thickly and gave a smack with her lips, as if she were tasting something very nice.

      Loungers dropped in, and loungers dropped out, coming for the most part to meet other loungers, and, like the Athenians of old, to ask whether there was anything new. Sometimes Miss Clode was consulted, and when this was the case, her way was soft, deprecating, and diffident. She thought she had heard this; she believed that she had heard that; she would endeavour to find out; or, yes, to be sure, her ladyship was right: it was so, she remembered now. While when not invited to give opinions, she was busy in the extreme over some item connected with her business, and hearing and seeing nothing, with that bended head so intent upon arranging, or booking, or tying up.

      There was very little, though, that Miss Clode did not hear, especially when some one of a group said, “Oh, fie!” or “No, really, now!” or “How shocking!” and there was a little burst of giggles.

      In due time, just as Miss Clode was instructing her niece in the art of tying up a packet of wools, so that one end was left open and the dealer could see at a glance what colours it contained, Annie’s jaw dropped, and seemed to draw down the lower lids of her eyes, so that they were opened to the fullest extent, for Frank Burnett’s handsome britzka drew up at the door, the steps were rattled down, flip, flop, flap, with a vigorous action that would bring people to the windows to see, and, all sweetness in appearance and odour, like the blossom she was, the MC’s idol stepped daintily rustling down, the very model of all that was naïve and girlish.

      “Who’d ever think she was a wife?” said Miss Clode to herself.

      “Oh my! isn’t she pretty?” said Annie.

      “Go on tying up those packets, and don’t take any notice,” said Miss Clode; and then, with the greatest of deference, wished her visitor good-morning, and begged to know how she was.

      “Not very well, Miss Clode: so tired. Society is so exacting. Can you recommend me any book that will distract me a little?”

      “Let me see, ma’am,” said Miss Clode, turning her head on one side in a very bird-like way, and bending forward as if she were going to peck a seed off the counter.

      “Something that will really take me out of myself.”

      “The last romance might be too exciting, ma’am?”

      “Do you think it would?”

      “Ye-e-e-es. Oh, yes, decidedly so in your case, ma’am,” said Miss Clode, in quite the tone of a female physician. “Poems – soft, dreamy, soothing poems, now, would I think be most suited.”

      “Oh, do you think so?” said Mrs Burnett half pettishly.

      “Yes, ma’am, I have a volume here, not included in the library, but for sale – ‘Lays of the Heart-strings’ – by a gentleman of quality. I should recommend it strongly.”

      “Oh, dear no,” exclaimed the visitor, as Miss Clode took the work from the shelf. “I don’t think a – well, I will look at it,” she said, blushing vividly, as she saw that the book did not thoroughly close in one part. “Perhaps you are right, Miss Clode. I will take it. What is the price?”

      “Half a guinea, ma’am, to subscribers, and I will call you a subscriber. Shall I do it up in paper?”

      “Yes, by all means. What delightful weather we are having!”

      “Delightful, indeed, ma’am,” said Miss Clode, whose face was simply business-like. There was not a nerve-twitch, not a peculiar glance to indicate that she was playing a double part; and it was wonderfully convenient. Visitors both ladies and gentlemen, liked it immensely, and patronised her accordingly, for no Artesian well was ever so deep and dark as Miss Clode, or as silent. She knew absolutely nothing. Mrs Frank Burnett had bought a volume of poems at her establishment, that was all. Anybody might have slipped the note inside. While as to seeking a client’s confidence, or alluding in the mildest way to any little transaction that had taken place for the sake of obtaining further fee or reward, any client would have told you that with the purchase of book, album, card-case, or needle-housewife, every transaction was at an end; and so Miss Clode’s business throve, and Lord Carboro’ called her the Saltinville sphinx.

      “Is there any particular news stirring, Miss Clode?”

      “Really, no, ma’am,” said that lady, pausing in the act of cutting the twine that confined the book. “A new family has come to the George; and, by the way, I have to send their cards to Mr Denville.”

      “Oh, of course, I don’t want to know anything about that,” said Mrs Burnett hastily.

      “The officers are talking of getting up a ball before long, and they say that a certain person will be there.”

      “Indeed!” said the visitor, flushing.

      “Yes, ma’am, I was told so, and – ahem! – here is Lord Carboro’. Half a guinea, ma’am, if you please.”

      Surely there was no occasion for a lady to look so flushed in the act of extricating a little gold coin from her purse; but somehow the ordinary sweet ingenuous look would not come back to May Burnett’s face, any more than the coin would consent to come out of the little, long net purse with gold tassels and slides; and the colour deepened as the keen little eyes of the old man settled for a moment on the tied-up book, and then on Miss Clode’s face.

      “What an old sphinx it is,” he thought to himself. “The day grows brighter every hour, Mrs Burnett,” he said gallantly. “It has culminated in the sight of you.”

      “Your lordship’s compliments are overpowering,” said the lady, with a profound curtsey; and then she secured her book and would have fled, but his lordship insisted upon escorting her to her carriage, hat in hand, and he cursed that new pomade in a way that was silent but not divine, for it lifted one side of his hair as if he were being scalped when he raised his hat.

      “Good-morning, good-morning!” he said, as the