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. CHAPTER VII THE next morning it still rained, a cold rain from the north-east, a very disagreeable type of weather on the Fenmarket flats. Madge was not awake until late, and when she caught sight of the grey sky and saw her finery tumbled on the floor—no further use for it in any shape save as rags—and the dirty crown, which she had brought upstairs, lying on the heap, the leaves already fading, she felt depressed and miserable. The breakfast was dull, and for the most part all three were silent. Mrs Hopgood and Clara went away to begin their housework, leaving Madge alone. ‘Madge,’ cried Mrs Hopgood, ‘what am I to do with this thing? It is of no use to preserve it; it is dead and covered with dirt.’ ‘Throw it down here.’ She took it and rammed it into the fire. At that moment she saw Frank pass. He was evidently about to knock, but she ran to the door and opened it. ‘I did not wish to keep you waiting in the wet.’