ice: "Stay! I will wed him." This was enunciated
with the calmness of despair. Not a gesture, nor a twinge of the
features, nor an accent to indicate emotion of any kind. It was in quiet
efforts like these that Mrs. Slapman excelled.

When the applause elicited by this stroke of genius had ceased, Mr.
Chickson (Signor Rodicaso) came rather awkwardly upon the stage. His
eyes (and, it might be added, his legs) rolled absently about, as if he
were endeavoring to recall his part, or were in the inward act of
composing a poem.

"Your future husband, Fidelia," said the father.

Fidelia rose from her seat--still imperturbable.

Chickson advanced with a sliding motion, and then paused, as if he had
forgotten what to do. Mrs. Slapman was heard to whisper something
(probably the cue), but he only rolled his eyes heavily in response. A
look of displeasure marred her serene features, and, instead of fainting
away in Signor Rodicaso's arms, as she should have done, she dropped
into the embrace of her father, taking that personage quite
unexpectedly, and nearly knocking him off his chair.

Chickson projected himself forward at the same time to catch her, and,
in so doing, lost his balance, and just escaped, by an effort, from
sprawling on the floor.

Then he looked helplessly at the audience; and there was no longer any
doubt entertained that Chickson was slightly intoxicated. Getting drunk,
now and then, was an infirmity of Chickson's genius.

The stage manager had the good sense to ring down the curtain on this
painful scene, and, the next moment, there was a dull sound, as of
somebody falling on the floor behind the green baize.

After an interval of fifteen minutes--protracted by the "unexpected
indisposition" of the poet, and the consequent necessity of intrusting
Signor Rodicaso to other hands--the curtain rises again, and discloses
Alberto in a humble cot, surrounded by three-legged stools, and other
evidences of extreme poverty. He is seated on a rickety table (in
preference to the greater uncertainty of the stools), his arms are
folded, and his head droops upon his breast.

In this attitude, he begins to soliloquize, and informs the audience
(what they did not know before) that, from a clump of shrubbery, he had
seen fully as much as they of the preceding scene. He does not blame
Fidelia. Oh! no. In her cruel dilemma, she could do no less. But he
curses--and curses again--and continues to curse for some time--that