“None.”
“What a pity! You would make a handsome lover.” Then she blushed. “Lud! What am I saying? Besides”––maliciously––“I believe you have eyes for some one else. But remember,”––shaking her finger and with a coquettish turn of the head––“I am an actress and therefore vain. I must have the best part in the new piece. Don’t forget that, or I’ll not travel in the same chariot with you.” And Susan disappeared.
“Ah, Kate,” she said, a moment later, “what a fine-looking young man he is!”
“Who?” drawled her sister.
“Mr. Saint-Prosper, of course.”
“He is large enough,” retorted Kate, leisurely.
“Large enough! O, Kate, what a phlegmatic creature you are!”
“Fudge!” said the other as she left the chamber.
Entering the tavern, the soldier was met by the wiry old lady who bobbed into the breakfast room and explained the kind of part that fitted her like a glove, her prejudices being strong against modern plays.
“Give me dramas like ‘Oriana,’ ‘The Rival Queens’ or Webster’s pieces,” she exclaimed, quoting with much fire for her years: