The Infidel. M. E. Braddon

the town goes there."

      "Then I'll beg my father to take me. I am helping him with his new comedy, and I want to see what modish people are like—off the stage."

      "Not half so witty as they are on it. Is there a part for me in the new play?"

      Patty would have asked that question of Shakespeare's ghost had he returned to earth to write a new Hamlet. It was her only idea in association with the drama.

      "Indeed, Patty, there is an impudent romp of quality you would act to perfection."

      "I love a romp," cried Patty, clapping her hands. "Give me a pinafore and a pair of scarlet shoes, and I am on fire with genius. I hope David will bring out your dad's play, and that 'twill run a month."

      "If it did he would give me a silk gown, and I might see Ranelagh."

      "He is not a bad father, is he, Tonia?"

      "Bad! There was never a kinder father."

      "But he lets you work hard."

      "I love the work next best to him that sets me to it."

      "And he has been your only schoolmaster, and you are clever enough to frighten a simpleton like me."

      "Nay, Patty, you are the cleverest, for you can do things—act, sing, dance. Mine is only book-learning; but such as it is, I owe it all to my father."

      "I hate books. 'Twas as much as I could do to learn to read. But there's one matter in which your father has been unkind to you."

      "No, no—in nothing."

      "Yes," said Patty, shaking her head solemnly, "he has brought you up an atheist, never to go to church, not even on Christmas Day; and to read Voltaire"—with a shudder.

      "Do you go to church, Patty? 'Tis handy enough to your lodgings."

      "Oh, I am too tired of a Sunday morning, after acting six nights in a week; for if Bellamy and Pritchard are out of the bill and going out a-visiting, and strutting and grimacing in fine company, there's always a part for a scrub like me; and if I'm not in the play I'm in the burletta."

      "And do you think you're any wickeder for not going to church twice every Sunday?"

      "I always go at Christmas and at Easter," protested Patty, "and I feel myself a better woman for going. You've been brought up to hate religion."

      "No, Patty, only to hate the fuss that's made about it, and the cruelties men have done to each other, ever since the world began, in its name."

      "I wouldn't read Voltaire if I was you," said Patty. "The General told me 'twas an impious, indecent book."

      "Voltaire is the author of more than forty books, Patty."

      "Oh, is it an author? I thought 'twas the name of a novel, like 'Tom Jones,' only more impudent."

      There came a knock at the door, and this time Patty knew it was her old General.

      "Stop out, Beast!" she cried. "There's nobody at home to an old fool!" upon which courteous greeting the ancient warrior entered smiling.

      "Was there ever such a witty puss?" he exclaimed. "I kiss Mrs. Grimalkin's velvet paw. Pray how many mice has Minette crunched since breakfast?"

      His favourite jest was to attribute feline attributes to Patty, whose appreciation of his humour rose or fell in unison with his generosity. A pair of white gloves worked with silver thread, or a handsome ribbon for her hair secured her laughter and applause.

      To-day Patty's keen glance showed her that the General was empty-handed. He had not brought her so much as a violet posy. He saluted Antonia with his stateliest bow, blinking at her curiously, but too short-sighted to be aware of her beauty in the dim light of the parlour, where evening shadows were creeping over the panelled walls.

      Patty set the kettle on the fire and washed out the little china teapot, while she talked to her ancient admirer. He liked to watch her kitten-like movements, her trim sprightly ways, to take a cup of weak tea from her hand, and to tell her his news of the town, which was mostly wrong, but which she always believed. She thought him a foolish old person, but the pink of fashion. His talk was a diluted edition of the news we read in Walpole's letters—talk of St. James's and Leicester House, of the old king and his grandson, newly created Prince of Wales, of the widowed princess and Lord Bute, of a score of patrician belles whose histories were more or less scandalous, and of those two young women from Dublin, the penniless Gunnings, whose beauty had set the town in a blaze—sisters so equal in perfection that no two people were of a mind as to which was the handsomer.

      Tonia had met the General often, and knew his capacity for being interesting. She rose and bade her friend good-bye.

      "Nay, child, 'tis ill manners to leave me directly I have company. The General and I have no secrets."

      "My Minette is a cautious puss, and will never confess to the singing-birds she has killed," said the dodderer.

      Tonia protested that her father would be at home and wanting her. She saluted the soldier with her stateliest curtsey, and departed with the resolute aplomb of a duchess.

      "Your friend's grand manners go ill with her shabby gown," said the General. "With her fine figure she should do well on the stage."

      "There is too much of her, General. She is too tall by a head for an actress. 'Tis delicate little women look best behind the lamps."

      Thornton was fond of his daughter, and had never said an unkind word to her; but he had no scruples about letting her work for him, having a fixed idea that youth has an inexhaustible fund of health and strength upon which age can never overdraw. He was proud of her mental powers, and believed that to help a hack-scribbler with his multifarious contributions to magazines and newspapers was the finest education possible for her. If they went to the playhouse together 'twas she who wrote a critique on the players next morning, while her father slept. Dramatic criticism in those days was but scurvily treated by the Press, and Tonia was apt to expatiate beyond the limits allowed by an editor, and was mortified to see her opinions reduced to the baldest comment.

      She talked to her father of Mrs. Mandalay's dancing-rooms. He knew there was such a place, but doubted whether 'twas a reputable resort. He promised to make inquiries, and thus delayed matters, without the unkindness of a refusal. Tonia was helping him with a comedy for Drury Lane—indeed, was writing the whole play, his part of the work consisting chiefly in running his pen across Tonia's scenes, and bidding her write them again in accord with his suggestions, which she did with equal meekness and facility. He grew a little lazier every day as he discovered his daughter's talent, and encouraged her to labour for him. He praised himself for having taught her Spanish, so that she had the best comedies in the world, as he thought, at her fingers' ends.

      It was for the sake of the comedy Tonia urged her desire to see the beau monde.

      "'Tis dreadful to write about people of fashion when one has never seen any," she said.

      "Nay, child, there's no society in Europe will provide you better models than you'll find in yonder duodecimos," her father would say, pointing to Congreve and Farquhar. "Mrs. Millamant is a finer lady than any duchess in London."

      "Mrs. Millamant is half a century old, and says things that would make people hate her if she was alive now."

      "Faith, we are getting vastly genteel; and I suppose by-and-by we shall have plays as decently dull as Sam Richardson's novels, without a joke or an oath from start to finish," protested Thornton.

      It was more than a month after Tonia's first appeal that her father came home to dinner one afternoon in high spirits, and clapped a couple of tickets on the tablecloth by his daughter's plate.

      "Look there, slut!" he cried. "I seized my first chance of obliging you. There is a masked ball at Mrs. Mandalay's to-night, and I waited upon my old friend Lord Kilrush on purpose to ask him for tickets; and now you have only to run to the costumier's and borrow a domino