CHAPTER IX.
The historian shows that, notwithstanding the progressive spirit of the times, a Briton is not permitted, without an effort, "to progress" according to his own inclinations.
Sophy could not sleep.

At first she was too happy.

Without being conscious of any degradation in her lot amongst the itinerant artists of Mr.Rugge's exhibition,--how could she, when her beloved and revered protector had been one of those artists for years ?--yet instinctively she shrank from their contact.

Doubtless, while absorbed in some stirring part, she forgot companions, audience, all, and enjoyed what she performed,--necessarily enjoyed, for her acting was really excellent, and where no enjoyment there no excellence; but when the histrionic enthusiasm was not positively at work, she crept to her grandfather with something between loathing and terror of the "painted creatures" and her own borrowed tinsel.
But, more than all, she felt acutely every indignity or affront offered to Gentleman Waife.

Heaven knows, these were not few; and to escape from such a life--to be with her grandfather alone, have him all to herself to tend and to pet, to listen to and to prattle with--seemed to her the consummation of human felicity.