"I propose to give you this bit of paper for it," said the Count.
He handed the manager an I.O.U. for 200*l.*; and then carefully folded up the letter and put it in his pocket.
CHAPTER XXVII.
DOUBTFUL.
Without taking off either bonnet or cloak, Annie Brunel, on reaching home that night, went at once to Mrs. Christmas's room, and flung herself down on the edge of the bed where the poor old woman lay, ailing and languid.
"Oh, mother, mother," cried the girl, "I can never go to the theatre any more!"
She buried her face in the bed-clothes, and only stretched out her hand for sympathy. The old woman tried to put her arm round the girl's neck, but relinquished the attempt with a sigh.
"What is to become of us, Miss Annie?"
"I don't know—I don't know," she said, almost wildly, "and why should I care any longer?"
"What new trouble is this that has fallen on us?" said Mrs. Christmas, faintly. "Why do you speak like that?"