t least a fortnight," Miss Burgoyne observed, with decision; and then
she had to ask him to open the door, for it was time for her to get up
to the wings.

Christmas was now close at hand, and one evening when Harry Thornhill,
attired in his laced coat and ruffles, silken stockings and buckled
shoes, went as usual into Miss Burgoyne's room, he perceived that she
had, somewhere or other, obtained a piece of mistletoe, which she had
placed on the top of the piano. As soon as Grace Mainwaring knew he was
there, she came forth from the dressing-room and went to the big mirror,
kicking out her resplendent train of flounced white satin behind her,
and proceeding to judge of the general effect of her powder and patches
and heavily-pencilled eyebrows.

"Where are you going for Christmas?" she asked.

"Into the country," he answered.

"That's no good," said the brilliant-eyed white little bride, still
contemplating herself in the glass, and giving a finishing touch here
and there. "The country's too horrid at this time of year. We are going
to Brighton, some friends and I, a rather biggish party; and a whole
heap of rooms have been taken at a hotel. That will be fun, I promise
you. A dance in the evening. You'd better come; I can get you an
invitation."

"Thanks, I couldn't very well. I am going to play the good boy, and
pass one night under the parental roof. It isn't often I get the
chance."

"I wish you would tell me where to hang up that piece of mistletoe," she
said, presently.

"I know where I should like to hang it up," he made answer, with a sort
of lazy impertinence.

"Where?"

"Just over your head."

"Why?"

"You would see."

She made a little grimace.

"Oh, no, I shouldn't see anything of the kind," she retorted,
confidently. "I should see nothing of the kind. You haven't acquired the
right, young gentleman. On the stage Harry Thornhill may claim his
privileges--or make believe; but off the stage he must keep his
distance."

That significant phrase about his not having acquired the right was
almost a challenge. And why should he not say, "Well, give me the
right!" What did it matter? It was of little concern what happened to
him. As he lay back in his chair and looked at her, he guessed what she
would do. He imagined the pretty little performance. "Well, give me the
right, then!" Miss Burgoyne turns round from the mirror. "Lionel, what
do you mean?"

"You know what I mean: let us be engaged love