N RUFFIN MAKES AN ARRANGEMENT

The angel child looked at the letter from Buda-Pesth with lively
interest, for she knew that it came from her friend and patroness
Esmeralda, the dancer, who was engaged in a triumphant tour of the
continent of Europe. She put it on the top of the pile of letters,
mostly bills, which had come for her employer, the Honourable John
Ruffin, set the pile beside his plate, and returned to the preparation of
his breakfast.

She looked full young to hold the post of house-keeper to a barrister of
the Inner Temple, for she was not yet thirteen; but there was an
uncommonly capable intentness in her deep blue eyes as she watched the
bacon, sizzling on the grill, for the right moment to turn the rashers.
She never missed it. Now and again those deep blue eyes sparkled at the
thought that the Honourable John Ruffin would presently give her news of
her brilliant friend.

She heard him come out of his bedroom, and at once dished up his bacon,
and carried it into his sitting-room. She found him already reading the
letter, and saw that it was giving him no pleasure. His lips were set in
a thin line; there was a frown on his brow and an angry gleam in his grey
eyes. She knew that of all the emotions which moved him, anger was the
rarest; indeed she could only remember having once seen him angry: on the
occasion on which he had smitten Mr. Montague Fitzgerald on the head when
that shining moneylender was trying to force from her the key of his
chambers; and she wondered what had been happening to the Esmeralda to
annoy him. She was too loyal to suppose that anything that the Esmeralda
had herself done could be annoying him.

He ate his breakfast more slowly than usual, and with a brooding air.
His eyes never once, as was their custom, rested with warm appreciation
on Pollyooly's beautiful face, set in its aureole of red hair; he did not
enliven his meal by talking to her about the affairs of the moment. She
respected his musing, and waited on him in silence. She had cleared away
the breakfast tray and was folding the table-cloth when, at last, he
broke his thoughtful silence.

"There's nothing for it: I must go to Buda-Pesth," he said with a
resolute air.

"There's nothing the matter with the Esmeralda, sir?" said Pollyooly with
quick anxiety.

"There's something very much the matter with the Esmeralda--a
Moldo-Wallachian," said the Honourable John Ruffin with stern coldness.

"Is it an il