dern degeneracy has debased that first-born of Momus,
but the genuine original zany of the Commedia, ragged and patched, an
impudent, cowardly, blackguardly clown."

"Each one of us, as you perceive," said Harlequin, mimicking the leader
of the troupe, "is designed by Nature for the part he plays."

"Physically, my friend, physically only, else we should not have so much
trouble in teaching this beautiful Leandre to become a lover. Then
we have Pasquariel here, who is sometimes an apothecary, sometimes a
notary, sometimes a lackey--an amiable, accommodating fellow. He is also
an excellent cook, being a child of Italy, that land of gluttons. And
finally, you have myself, who as the father of the company very properly
play as Pantaloon the roles of father. Sometimes, it is true, I am a
deluded husband, and sometimes an ignorant, self-sufficient doctor.
But it is rarely that I find it necessary to call myself other than
Pantaloon. For the rest, I am the only one who has a name--a real name.
It is Binet, monsieur.

"And now for the ladies... First in order of seniority we have Madame
there." He waved one of his great hands towards a buxom, smiling blonde
of five-and-forty, who was seated on the lowest of the steps of the
travelling house. "She is our Duegne, or Mother, or Nurse, as the case
requires. She is known quite simply and royally as Madame. If she ever
had a name in the world, she has long since forgotten it, which is
perhaps as well. Then we have this pert jade with the tip-tilted nose
and the wide mouth, who is of course our soubrette Columbine, and
lastly, my daughter Climene, an amoureuse of talents not to be matched
outside the Comedie Francaise, of which she has the bad taste to aspire
to become a member."

The lovely Climene--and lovely indeed she was--tossed her nut-brown
curls and laughed as she looked across at Andre-Louis. Her eyes, he had
perceived by now, were not blue, but hazel.

"Do not believe him, monsieur. Here I am queen, and I prefer to be queen
here rather than a slave in Paris."

"Mademoiselle," said Andre-Louis, quite solemnly, "will be queen
wherever she condescends to reign."

Her only answer was a timid--timid and yet alluring--glance from under
fluttering lids. Meanwhile her father was bawling at the comely young
man who played lovers--"You hear, Leandre! That is the sort of speech you
should practise."

Leandre raised languid eyebrows. "That?" quoth he, and shrugged. "The
meres