"So do I, for Rachel's sake."
"We are both preux chevaliers. anxious to gain for our lady-loves not fame, but money. Oh, base desire!"
"It may be base, but it's very necessary," replied the prudent Jew, and they both entered the stage-door of the theatre.
Mortimer's sanctum was a very well-furnished room, displaying considerable taste on the part of the occupant, for the manager of the "Bon-Bon" was sybaritic in his ideas. The floor was covered with a heavy velvet carpet, and the walls adorned with excellent pictures, while the furniture was all chosen for comfort as well as for ornament. Mortimer was seated at his desk with a confused mass of papers before him, and leaning back in a chair near him was Caprice, who looked rather pale and worn.
There was a lamp on the table with a heavy shade, which concentrated all the light into a circle, and Kitty's pale face, with its aureole of fair hair seen in the powerful radiance, appeared strange and unreal. Dark circles under her heavy eyes, faint lines round the small mouth, and the weary look now habitual to her, all combined to give her face a wan and spiritual look which made even Mortimer shiver as he looked at her.
"Hang it, Kitty," he said roughly, "don't look so dismal. You ought to see a doctor."
"What for?" she asked listlessly. "I'm quite well."
"Humph! I don't think so. You've been going down the hill steadily the last few months. Look how thin you are--a bag of bones."
"So was Rachel," replied Caprice, with a faint smile.
"Well, she didn't live very long. Besides, you ain't Rachel," growled Mortimer, "and I don't want you to get ill just now."