'I like you all the better,' she replied, smiling. 'I am not a gentlewoman either. The actress is a rogue and a vagabond. So is the musician I suppose.'
I stared. Was she, then, still an actress—and living in this stately Palace?
'You are a musician. Do you, then, want to find work as a fiddler?'
'That is what I am looking for.'
'Let us consider. Do you play like a—a—gentleman or like one of the calling?'
'I am one of the calling. When I tell you that I used to live by fiddling for sailors to dance——'
'Say no more—say no more. They are the finest critics in the world. If you please them it is enough. Why should I not engage you, myself?'
'You—engage—me? You—Madame?'
'Friend Will,' she laid her hand on mine, 'there are reasons why I wish you well and would stand by you if I could. I will tell you, another day, what those reasons are. Let me treat you as a friend. When we are alone, I am not Madame: I am Jenny.'
There are some women who if they said such a thing as this, would be taken as declaring the passion of love. No one could look at Jenny's face which was all simplicity and candour and entertain the least suspicion of such a thing.