"My father is well," replied the girl; but her scrutiny still rested upon my companion's face and yellow hair. Under this inspection Deborah was flushing, and I hastened to end it.
"This is Miss Speedwell, Beatrice." I said. "She has come with me to see the play. You must give us good seats."
Beatrice touched Deborah's glove with a soiled paw, and, without a word of reply, led the way through the door of the theatre and along the aisle.
We had arrived early, and the theatre was empty. The place was fascinating enough, but I noticed that my companion, who was commonly both curious and self-reliant, followed me closely.
"What a beautiful, strange child," she whispered.
"H—m! child!" I said to myself, and fell to musing upon my last visit to the theatre.
"She promised herself to both last night."
"Beatrice," I asked, "are you married yet?"
"No, Signore," answered the girl, without turning her head.