THE PRINCIPAL BOY. 200
lord, ugh! I never had your sense of duty, Frank, and must really cry ‘quits.’ Now you see the value of secret engage- ments — ours is off, and nobody will be the wiser — or the worse. Now get thee to his lordship — concealment, like a worm i’ the bud, no longer preying upon thy damask cheek. I was alway sorry you had to keep it from the old buffer. But it was for the best, wasn’t it?—-ha! ha!—it was for the best! Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!”
Frank fled down the staircase followed by long peals of musical laughter. They followed him into the bleak night, which had no frost for him; but they became less musical as they rang on, and as the terrified maid and the landlady strove in vain to allay the hysterical tempest.
IV.
The Oriental, on Boxing Night, was like a baker’s oven for temperature, and an unopened sardine-barrel for popu- lousness. The East-end had poured its rollicking multitudes into the vast theatre, which seethed over with noisy vitality. There was much traffic in ginger beer, oranges, Banbury cakes, and “bitter.” The great audience roared itself hoarse over old choruses with new words. Lucy Gray, as Prince Prettypet, made an instant success. The mashers of the Oriental ogled her in silent flattery. Her clear elocution, her charming singing voice, her sprightly dancing, her chic, her frank vulgarity, when she “let herself go,” took every heart captive. Every heart, that is, save one, which was filled with sickness and anguish, and covered with a veil of fine linen. The heir of the house of Redhill cowered at the back of the O.P. stage-box — the only place in the house disengaged when he drove up in a mistaken
