THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE
A scarf was tied across the eyes of the Merry Dwarf, who stood in a remote corner of the stage. Bravo indeed! For the shaft had pierced the waxen figure through the heart or just where the heart would have been, if the figure had been human and not waxen.
Lord George called for port and champagne and beckoned the bowing homuncle to his box, that he might compliment him on his skill and pledge him in a bumper of the grape.
“On my soul, you have a genius for the bow,” his lordship cried with florid condescension. “Come and sit by me, but first let me present you to my divine companion the Signora Gambogi—Virgo and Sagittarius, egad! You may have met on the Zodiac.”
“Indeed, I met the Signora many years ago,” the Dwarf replied, with a low bow. “But not on the Zodiac, and the Signora perhaps forgets me.”
At this speech the Signora flushed angrily, for she was indeed no longer young, and the Dwarf had a childish face. She thought he mocked her; her eyes flashed. Lord George’s twinkled rather maliciously.
“Great is the experience of youth,” he laughed. “Pray, are you stricken with more than twenty summers?”
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