t affecting to comprehend it, he thrust back
the money, and said,--"No, sir, not a shilling till the picture is
completed. Nay, to relieve your mind, I will own that, had I no scruple
more delicate, I would rather receive nothing till Mr. Rugge is gone.
True, he has no right to any share in it. But you see before you a
man who, when it comes to arguing, could never take a wrangler's
degree,--never get over the Asses' Bridge, sir. Plucked at it scores of
times clean as a feather. But do not go yet. You came to give us money:
give us what, were I rich, I should value more highly,--a little of your
time. You, sir, are an artist; and you, young gentleman?" addressing
Lionel.

LIONEL (colouring).--"I--am nothing as yet."

WAIFE.--"You are fond of the drama, I presume, both of you? Apropos of
John Kemble, you, sir, said that you have never heard him. Allow me, so
far as this cracked voice can do it, to give you a faint idea of him."

"I shall be delighted," said Vance, drawing nearer to the table, and
feeling more at his ease. "But since I see you smoke, may I take the
liberty to light my cigar?"

"Make yourself at home," said Gentleman Waife, with the good-humour of
a fatherly host. And, all the while, Lionel and Sophy were babbling
together, she still upon his lap.

Waife began his imitation of John Kemble. Despite the cracked voice, it
was admirable. One imitation drew on another; then succeeded anecdotes
of the Stage, of the Senate, of the Bar. Waife had heard great orators,
whom every one still admires for the speeches which nobody nowadays
ever reads; he gave a lively idea of each. And then came sayings of
dry humour and odd scraps of worldly observation; and time flew on
pleasantly till the clock struck twelve, and the young guests tore
themselves away.

"Merle, Merle!" cried the Comedian, when they were gone.

Merle appeared.

"We don't go to-morrow. When Rugge sends for us (as he will do at
daybreak), say so. You shall lodge us a few days longer, and then--and
then--my little Sophy, kiss me, kiss me! You are saved at least from
those horrid painted creatures!"

"Ah, ah!" growled Merle from below, "he has got the money! Glad to
hear it. But," he added, as he glanced at sundry weird and astrological
symbols with which he had been diverting himself, "that's not it. The
true horary question, is, WHAT WILL HE DO WITH IT?"

CHAPTER IX.

The historian shows that, notwithstanding the progressive spirit