And then I laughed out loud, and banged my feet on the ground, and thumped the table, and cheered, and said “Holy Mouse! She thinks it’s good enough! God bless her!” Mind you, I should have done just the same if the King and all the Royal Family had been in the audience. I forgot there was an audience. I forgot my part, my costume, my name--everything. As for Greensmith, he might never have lived. The audience applauded like anything, _because they’d seen Millicent write the charade letter and knew she’d chucked me_. They thought it was so jolly natural for a girl to change her mind like that and send another letter. But Greensmith here made it clear that he lived. He was boiling all the starch out of his linen with rage, and trying to destroy me with his beady eye. “Read the letter, you miserable, long-legged fool!” he hissed under his breath. “I have,” I answered, and the audience roared. “You have not!” he said, coming round the wing in his excitement. “She’s refused you! Now you’ve ruined everything, you stupid ass!” This before everybody; and still I couldn’t grasp the situation, and turned on Greensmith. “Run away, run away, my little man,” I said, with calm superiority. “Refuses me! It’s here in black and white. She’s _accepted_ me, and I’m the happiest Johnny alive.” He flung down the book, gnashed his teeth, and forgot himself so far as to try and strike me in the face. I was too happy to hurt him. I just took him by the back of his neck somewhere, and called him a silly little cuckoo, and slapped him and let him go. Of course the charade ended there. It couldn’t proceed because Millicent had utterly dislocated the plot by accepting me. A thing like that in the middle of a drama can’t be repaired. So they dropped the curtain--and only missed Greensmith himself by a hair. And the best judges always say it was the finest amateur performance that they ever saw in their lives. General Warne sat in the billiard-room and cried with laughter all the next day; and I went about saying I was awfully sorry half the night. Everybody in the house frankly forgave me, too, excepting only Greensmith. He left the next morning and sent me a serious challenge to fight a duel soon afterwards; which I’ve got framed in oak and gold to this day. THE MATE OF THE “BUNCH O’ KEYS” In fifteen hundred and eighty-eight-- Name a braver year if you can-- ’Twas a caravel, as the legends tell, That passed from the sight of man. Southward away, like an ocean bird, On the breath of a northern blast, Sailed the _Bunch o’ Keys_; and following seas Laughed loud as they thundered past. She struggled from moon to moon again, While a hurricane round her leapt; Till her master and crew aweary grew, And murmured their Maker slept. Then many an angry and fearful eye Bent aglow on the vessel’s mate, Where he moved in dread, with a hanging head And a mien disconsolate.