Clara Hopgood

Again the curtain fell, the band struck up some dance music and the

audience were treated to 'something light,' and roared with laughter

at a pretty chambermaid at an inn who captivated and bamboozled a

young booby who was staying there, pitched him overboard; 'wondered

what he meant;' sang an audacious song recounting her many exploits,

and finished with a pas-seul.

The performers and their friends were invited to a sumptuous supper,

and the Fenmarket folk were not at home until half-past two in the

morning. On their way back, Clara broke out against the

juxtaposition of Shakespeare and such vulgarity.

'Much better,' she said, 'to have left the Shakespeare out

altogether. The lesson of the sequence is that each is good in its

way, a perfectly hateful doctrine to me.

Frank and Madge were, however, in the best of humours, especially

Frank, who had taken a glass of wine beyond his customary very

temperate allowance.

'But, Miss Hopgood, Mrs Martin had to suit all tastes; we must not be

too severe upon her.'

There was something in this remark most irritating to Clara; the word

'tastes,' for example, as if the difference between Miranda and the

chambermaid were a matter of 'taste.' She was annoyed too with

Frank's easy, cheery tones for she felt deeply what she said, and his

mitigation and smiling latitudinarianism were more exasperating than

direct opposition.

'I am sure,' continued Frank, 'that if we were to take the votes of

the audience, Miranda would be the queen of the evening;' and he put

the crown which he had brought away with him on her head again.

Clara was silent. In a few moments they were at the door of their

house. It had begun to rain, and Madge, stepping out of the carriage

in a hurry, threw a shawl over her head, forgetting the wreath. It

fell into the gutter and was splashed with mud. Frank picked it up,

wiped it as well as he could with his pocket-handkerchief, took it

into the parlour and laid it on a chair.