ow that she should think I cared for Patty never entered my head. I was
thrown all in a heap.

"You need not be so disturbed," whispers my lady. "Singleton has a
crooked mouth, and I credit Patty with ample sense to choose between you.
I adore her, Richard. I wish I had her sweet ways."

"But," I interrupted, when I was somewhat recovered, "why should you
think me in love with Patty? I have never been accused of that before."

"Oh, fie! You deny her?" says Dolly. "I did not think that of you,
Richard."

"You should know better," I replied, with some bitterness.

We were talking in low tones, Dolly with her head turned from the stage,
whence the doctor was flinging his impassioned speeches in vain. And
though the light fell not upon her face, I seemed to feel her looking me
through and through.

"You do not care for Patty?" she whispered. And I thought a quiver of
earnestness was in her voice. Her face was so close to mine that her
breath fanned my cheek.

"No," I said. "Why do you ask me? Have I ever been one to make
pretences?"

She turned away.

"But you," I said, bending to her ear, "is it Fitzhugh, Dorothy?"

I heard her laugh softly.

"No," said she, "I thought you might divine, sir."

Was it possible? And yet she had played so much with me that I dared not
risk the fire. She had too many accomplished gallants at her feet to
think of Richard, who had no novelty and no wit. I sat still, barely
conscious of the rising and falling voices beyond the footlights, feeling
only her living presence at my side. She spoke not another word until
the playhouse servants had relighted the chandeliers, and Dr. Courtenay
came in, flushed with triumph, for his mead of praise.

"And how went it, Miss Manners?" says he, very confident.

"Why, you fell over the orchard wall, doctor," retorts my lady. "La!
I believe I could have climbed it better myself."

And all he got was a hearty laugh for his pains, Mr. Marmaduke joining in
from the back of the box. And the story was at the Coffee House early on
the morrow.

CHAPTER XI

A FESTIVAL AND A PARTING

My grandfather and I were seated at table together. It was early June,
the birds were singing in the garden, and the sweet odours of the flowers
were wafted into the room.

"Richard," says he, when Scipio had poured his claret, "my illness
cheated you out of your festival last year. I dare swear you deem
yourself too old for birthdays now."

I laughed.

"S