The Master of the Ceremonies. Fenn George Manville

cannot stitch like their grandmothers.

      “And,” says a strong-minded lady, “are they any worse companions now for men than they were then?”

      “Opinions are various, madam.” I used to write that as a text-hand copy in a nicely-ruled book that I used to blot with inky fingers. You, madam, who claim your rights, surely will not deny me mine – to have my own opinion, which I will dare to give, and say:

      “Yes; I think they have not improved. Somehow one likes softness and sweetness in a woman, and your classic young ladies are often very sharp and hard.

      “If you combat my opinion upon the main idea of women’s purpose here, add this to your study – the aspect of a woman when she is most beautiful.

      “And when is that? – in her ball dress? – in her wedding costume? – when she first says ‘yes?’

      “Oh, no; none of these, but when she is alone with the child she loves, and that sweet – well, angelic look of satisfied maternity is on her face, and there is Nature’s own truth stamped indelibly as it has been from the first.

      “Men never look like that. They never did, and one may say never will. It is not given to us, madam. Study that look; it is more convincing than all the speeches women ever spoke on woman’s rights.”

      Just such a look was upon the face of little thin white-faced Miss Clode, as the frank, manly young fellow strode suddenly into her shop, making her start, change colour, and set down on the counter something she was holding, taking it up again directly with trembling hands.

      “Ah, Miss Clode,” he said cheerfully, “here I am again. Is it the weather, or are your strings bad?”

      “Do they break so, then?” she said, hurriedly producing a tin canister, which refused to give up its lid; and Richard had to take it, and wrench it off with his strong fingers, when a number of oily rings of transparent catgut flew out on to the glass case.

      “How clumsy I am,” he said.

      “No,” she said softly; “how strong and manly. How you have altered these last ten years!”

      “Well, I suppose so,” he said, smiling down at the little thin, upturned, admiring face. “But you’ll ruin me in strings, Miss Clode.”

      “I wish you would not pay for them,” she said plaintively. “I get the very best Roman strings. I send on purpose to a place in Covent Garden, London, and they ought to be good.”

      “And so they are,” he said, taking up half a dozen rings on his fingers and examining them to see which were the clearest, smoothest, and most transparent.

      “But they break so,” she sighed. “You really must not pay for these.”

      “Then I shall not have any,” he said.

      She gazed tenderly in his face, and her eyes were very intent as she watched him. Then, coughing slightly, and half turning away, she said gently:

      “And your father – is he quite well?”

      “Oh yes, thank you. Very well. Well as a man can be who has such a great idle, useless son.”

      Miss Clode shook her little curls at him reproachfully, and there was something very tender in her way as she cried, “You should not say that.” Then, in a quiet apologetic manner, she lowered her tone and said:

      “You can’t help being so tall and strong and manly, and – and – and – I’m only an old woman, Mr Linnell,” she said, smiling in a deprecating way, “and I’ve known you since you were such a boy, so I shall say it – you won’t be vain – so handsome.”

      “Am I?” he said, laughing. “Ah well, handsome is that handsome does, Miss Clode.”

      “Exactly,” she said, laying her hand upon his arm and speaking very earnestly, “and I have three – three notes here.”

      “For me?” he said, blushing like a woman, and then frowning at his weakness.

      “Yes, Mr Linnell, for you.”

      “Tear them up, then,” he said sharply. “I don’t want them.”

      Miss Clode gave vent to a sigh of relief.

      “Or no,” he said firmly. “They were given to you to deliver. Give them to me.”

      She passed three triangular notes to him half unwillingly, and he took them, glanced at the handwritings, and then tore them across without opening them.

      “No lady worth a second thought would address a man like that,” he said sharply. “Where shall I throw this stuff?”

      Miss Clode stooped down and lifted a waste-paper basket from behind the counter, and he threw the scraps in.

      “We are old friends, Miss Clode,” he said. “Burn them for me, please, at once. I should not like to be so dishonourable as to disgrace the writers by letting them be seen.”

      “People are talking about you so, sir.”

      “About me?” he cried.

      “Yes, Mr Linnell; they say you behaved like a hero.”

      “Absurd!”

      “When you swam out to the pony carriage and helped to rescue those – er – ladies.”

      “My dear Miss Clode, would not any fisherman on the beach have done the same if he had been near? I wish people would not talk such nonsense.”

      “People will talk down here, Mr Linnell. They have so little else to do.”

      “More’s the pity,” said Richard pettishly.

      “And is – is Mrs Dean quite well again, Mr Linnell?”

      “Oh yes,” he said coolly. “She was more frightened than hurt.”

      “Does Miss Dean seem any worse, sir? Does she look pale?”

      The little woman asked these questions in a hesitating way, her hands busy the while over various objects on her counter.

      “Pale – pale?” said Richard, turning over the violin strings and looking to see which were the most clear. “Really, I did not notice, Miss Clode.”

      “He would not speak so coolly if this affair had ripened into anything more warm than being on friendly terms,” thought the little woman, and she seemed to breathe more freely.

      “I’m afraid I’ve been very rude,” continued the young man. “I ought to have asked after them this morning.”

      Miss Clode gave another sigh of relief.

      “No one shall see those scraps, Mr Linnell,” she said quietly; and the look of affectionate pride in him seemed to intensify. “It is quite right that a young gentleman like you should have some one to love him, but not in such a way as that.”

      “No,” he replied shortly, and the colour came into his cheeks again, making them tingle, so that he stamped his foot and snatched up the violin strings again to go on with his selection. “There, I shall have these four,” he said, forcing a smile, “and if they don’t turn out well I shall patronise your rival, Miss Clode.”

      “My rival!” exclaimed the little woman, turning pale. “Oh, I understand. Yes, of course, Mr Linnell. Those four. Let me put them in paper.”

      “No, no. I’ll slip them in this little case,” he said, and he laid four shillings on the counter.

      “I’d really much rather you did not pay for them,” she protested, and very earnestly too.

      “Then I won’t have them,” he said; and, with a sigh, Miss Clode placed the money in her drawer.

      “I hope you were not one of the party who serenaded a certain lady on that terrible night of horrors, Mr Linnell,” she said, smiling; and then, noticing quickly the start he gave, “Why, fie! I did not think you thought of such things.”

      “Yes; don’t talk about it, I beg,” he exclaimed. “It was