"I would rather be without the canister than plagued by that old man's company," said Tonia.
"Oh, you are hard to please – unless 'tis some scholar with his mouth full of book talk! I find the General vastly entertaining. Sure he knows everybody in London, and everything that is doing or going to be done. He keeps me aw courrong," concluded Patty, whose French was on a par with her English.
She rose from the hearth, with her muffin smoking at the end of a long tin toasting-fork. Her parlour was full of incongruities – silver tea-canister, china cups and saucers glorified by sprawling red and blue dragons, an old mahogany tea-board and pewter spoons, a blue satin négligé hanging over the back of a chair, an open powder-box on the side table. The furniture was fine but shabby – the sort of fine shabbiness that satisfied the landlady's clients, who were mostly from the two patent theatres. The house had a renown for being comfortable and easy to live in – no nonsense about early hours or quiet habits.
"Prythee make the tea while I butter the muffins," said Patty. "The kettle is on the boil. But take your hat off before you set about it. Ah, what glorious hair!" she said, as Antonia threw off the poor little gipsy hat; "and to think that mine is fiery red!"
"Nay, 'tis but a bright auburn. I heard your old General call it a trap for sunbeams. 'Tis far prettier than this inky black stuff of mine."
Antonia wore no powder, and the wavy masses of her hair were bound into a scarlet snood that set off their raven gloss. Her complexion was of a marble whiteness, with no more carnation than served to show she was a woman and not a statue. Her eyes, by some freak of heredity, were not black, like her mother's – whom she resembled in every other feature – but of a sapphire blue, the blue of Irish eyes, luminous yet soft, changeful, capricious, capable of dazzling joyousness, of profoundest melancholy. Brown-eyed, auburn-headed Patty looked at her young friend with an admiration which would have been envious had she been capable of ill-nature.
"How confoundedly handsome you are to-day!" she exclaimed; "and in that gown too! I think the shabbier your clothes are the lovelier you look. You'll be cutting me out with my old General."
"Your General has seen me a dozen times, and thinks no more of me than if I were a plaster image."
"Because you never open your lips before company, except to say yes or no, like a long-headed witness in the box. I wonder you don't go on the stage, Tonia. If you were ever so stupid at the trade your looks would get you a hearing and a salary."
"Am I really handsome?" Tonia asked, with calm wonder.
She had been somewhat troubled of late by the too florid compliments of booksellers and their assistants, whom she saw on her father's business; but she concluded it was their way of affecting gallantry with every woman under fifty. She had a temper that repelled disagreeable attentions, and kept the boldest admirer at arm's length.
"Handsome? You are the beautifullest creature I ever saw, and I would chop ten years off my old age to be as handsome, though most folks calls me a pretty woman," added Patty, bridling a little, and pursing up a cherry mouth.
She was a pink-and-white girl, with a complexion like new milk, and cheeks like cabbage-roses. She had a supple waist, plump shoulders, and a neat foot and ankle, and was a capable actress in all secondary characters. She couldn't carry a great playhouse on her shoulders, or make a dull play seem inspired, as Mrs. Pritchard could; or take the town by storm as Juliet, like Miss Bellamy.
"Well, I doubt my looks will never win me a fortune; but I hope I may earn money from the booksellers before long, as father does."
"Sure 'tis a drudging life – and you'd be happier in the theatre."
"Not I, Patty. I should be miserable away from my books, and not to be my own mistress. I work hard, and tramp to the city sometimes when my feet are weary of the stones; but father and I are free creatures, and our evenings are our own."
"Precious dull evenings," said Patty, with her elbows on the table and her face beaming at her friend. "Have a bit more muffin. I wonder you're not awnweed to death."
"I do feel a little triste sometimes, when the wind howls in the chimney, and every one in the house but me is in bed, and I have been alone all the evening."
"Which you are always."
"Father has to go to his club to hear the news. And 'tis his only recreation. But though I love my books, and to sit with my feet on the fender and read Shakespeare, I should love just once in a way to see what people are like; the women I see through their open windows on summer nights – such handsome faces, such flashing jewels, and with snowy feathers nodding over their powdered heads – "
"You should see them at Ranelagh. Why does not your father take you to Ranelagh? He could get a ticket from one of the fine gentlemen whose speeches he writes. I saw him talking to Lord Kilrush in the wings t'other night."
"Who is Lord Kilrush?"
"One of the finest gentlemen in town, and a favourite with all the women, though he is nearer fifty than forty."
"An old man?"
"You would call him so," said Patty, with a sigh, conscious of her nine and twenty years. "He'd give your father a ticket for Ranelagh, I'll warrant."
Tonia looked down at her brown stuff gown, and laughed the laugh of scorn.
"Ranelagh, in this gown!" she said.
"You should wear one of mine."
"Good dear, 'twould not reach my ankles!"
"I grant there's overmuch of you. Little David called you the Anakim Venus when he caught sight of you at the side scenes. 'Who's that magnificent giantess?' he asked."
"The people of Lilliput took Captain Gulliver for a giant, and the Brobdignagians thought him a dwarf. 'Tis a question of comparison," replied Tonia, huffed at the manager's criticism.
"Nay, don't be vexed, child. 'Tis a feather in your cap for Garrick to give you a second thought. Well, if Ranelagh won't suit, there is Mrs. Mandalay's dancing-room. She has a ball twice a week in the season, and a masquerade once a fortnight. You can borrow a domino from the costumier in the Piazza for the outlay of half a dozen shillings."
"Do the women of fashion go to Mrs. Mandalay's?"
"All 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