“You will always be most welcome,” said Mr. Ford, cordially.
“Rather a clever operation that!” thought Mr. Sharp, as he threaded his way down stairs. “It was a capital idea, making out the note for three hundred dollars and only paying him two. I knew he would never detect it. After all, the extra hundred will do more good in my hands than in Ford’s, who would only waste it on his crazy invention. My client will never be the wiser. By the way, he must have some deep scheme on foot, or he would never throw away such a sum on a crack-brained enthusiast. I think, old fellow, you’ve earned a good oyster-supper, with a glass or so to make it go down. Talking has made me as dry as a herring.”
And the benevolent Mr. Sharp, who was so anxious to connect his name with an important discovery in science, gravely entered a neighboring saloon and called for something to drink. Human nature is not at all times heroic.
CHAPTER XIV.
HELEN MAKES KNOWN HER ENGAGEMENT.
It was again morning. Helen sat at the window, which was thrown wide open to admit the pleasant breeze that rustled in and out like a restless sprite, laden, not with rich odors and sweet perfumes from green fields, but resonant with the noises of the crowded city streets.
There was an expression of doubt and perplexity in Helen’s face. She was considering whether it would be possible to make known to her father her engagement at the theatre, without, at the same time, revealing the motive which had led her to seek it. She was assured that her father would feel deeply pained if he knew the real state of the case, and she dreaded that he might object to her keeping her engagement. While she was hesitating, her father suddenly turned from his work and met her glance.
“A penny for your thoughts, Helen,” he said, with unwonted playfulness.
“My thoughts!” and she blushed consciously. “I am afraid, papa, they are not worth so much.”
“How cool and refreshing is the air!” mused Mr. Ford, as he stood for a moment at the window. “Mark how beautifully the clouds are tinged with the faintest flush of red. Well have the old poets spoken of morning as ‘rosy-fingered.’ Would you like to go out for a walk, Helen?”
Helen looked up at the clock. It lacked yet two hours of the time for rehearsal. There would be plenty of time for a walk, which, with her father, was never a long one.