As to your grandchild, Miss Juliet Araminta, she is a perfect chrysolite." Before Mr.Waife could reply, the Remorseless Baron stepped up in a spirit worthy of his odious and arbitrary character.

"What do you do here, sir?
I allow no conspirators behind the scenes earwigging my people." "I beg pardon respectfully: I am an artist,--a pupil of the Royal Academy; I should like to make a sketch of Miss Juliet Araminta." "Sketch! nonsense." "Sir," said Lionel, with the seasonable extravagance of early youth, "my friend would, I am sure, pay for the sitting--handsomely!" "Ha!" said the manager, softened, "you speak like a gentleman, sir: but, sir, Miss Juliet Araminta is under my protection; in fact, she is my property.

Call and speak to me about it to-morrow, before the first performance begins, which is twelve o'clock.

Happy to see any of your friends in the reserved seats.

Busy now, and--and--in short--excuse me--servant, sir--servant, sir." The Baron's manner left no room for further parley.