"Me muchee want to oblige English Sahib," she said, in her pulverised English, "but ze Effendina—ze what you call 'ead-mistress, French lady like myself—she no like it. She give me the bottine, if I let great buckra massa talk to Fraulein Smeets. But lookee—I give you straight tip. Miss Smeets is on ze pier now—you write note—slip it in her hand. I wink ze eyebrow. I have a grand envy to oblige the English Signor. Ah! Bismillah! Quelle alouette!"
She is French, very French, but she has a kind heart. I hurriedly wrote a few impassioned words on my left cuff, and folded it into a three-cornered note. I dropped it down Miss Smeet's neck as I found her leaning over the side of the pier, and then ran away. I heard her murmur, "Someone's mistaken me for the post-office."
It is still raining, but I am quite happy. I have seen her again, and I feel that she loves me. It was impossible to mistake the tendresse with which she murmured, "post-office." In my little note I requested her to send a reply to this hotel. I have asked her to tell me plainly what her income is, and to state on what conditions she will forfeit it. Of course, she has no income now, as she is a minor, but I would wait a year or two for a certainty. Shall I write her some verses—lines to a minor, or thoughts on the Southampton quay? Perhaps I had better wait until I obtain the statistics. Ah, here is James, bringing me a note. It must be from my darling—no, it is from Mademoiselle.
Dear Sir,—Miss Smith am going away to Londres. A telegram come for her, and I look over the shoulder. It say, 'Poor Tommy's kicked! Come at once,' Miss Smith make the tears.
Yours,
Lucia Donnerwetter.
I must be off to London and get this matter traced. James entreats me to buy a new hat when I am away. He says it's bringing disgrace on the hotel, and keeping away custom. What! Give up the hat which her dear foot has kicked! Never! But, perhaps, I will have it ironed. The iron has entered into my soul, and perhaps, it would be doing more good on my hat. Yes, I will have it ironed. It does look a little limp. Ironed or starched—what matter, when my darling is gone, and left me with no information as to her income?
(To be concluded in Two more Chapters.)
"Venice Preserved" in The Haymarket.
No—not Otway's tragedy, and not under Mr. Beerbohm Tree's management, but at the Gallery next door to the Theatre, and under the superintendence of Mr. McLean, you will find not only Venice, but Florence, Prague, Heidelberg, Capri, Augsburg, Nuremburg, Innsbrück, and a good many other picturesque places, preserved in about a hundred water-colour drawings, by Mr. Edward H. Bearne. If there were not so many rivers and lagoons in the exhibition, it might be called the "Bearnese Oberland." These pictures are well painted, and, during the gruesome weather, a tiny tour round this sunny gallery is mighty refreshing.