"I am not jesting, Mr. Fisher. I can be serious when serious matters are at stake, and there is nothing more serious than the health of an honest man like yourself. I tell you that you have a high fever and that you are going straight to bed, where you will keep warm and let Mrs. Fisher bring you a ptisan." "But I have no fever, and even if I had I should not fail to perform my duty. And this, a first-night! Why, the king and queen are to honor the performance with their presence!" "Well, let us cut the matter short, Mr. Fisher. Here is somewhat to sweeten your ptisan." With the words a handful of guineas changed hands, the jingle of which possessed a persuasive virtue all their own; whereupon the hairdresser began to comprehend that it is sometimes to one's advantage to be feverish. "But, my lord," he faltered, "would you have Miss Woodville go on the stage with dishevelled hair? Who will take my place?" "I will, Fisher." "Can your lordship dress a head of hair?" "I studied the art in Paris under the celebrated Leonard." "Is it so!" "Indeed it is. The man who does not know how to dress a woman's hair misses one of the greatest delights in life. That is why, my dear friend, your art was the most agreeable to Venus; and Mons. Lebeau, my tutor, a man-of-the-world, failed not to give me ample instruction." "Well, I am flambergasted now!" "Make haste to pull yourself together and be off, or you will take more cold on this staircase. Quick; hand me the comb, the powder, and the patch-box. Good night, Fisher; take good care of yourself. Devil, man! You'll find you cannot trifle with a fever." A minute later the false hairdresser, having duly knocked at the door and received permission to enter, walked into a narrow room in which Miss Woodville was dressing, assisted by a maid, under the watchful direction of her aunt, Mrs. Marsham. "Come, Mr. Fisher," said Esther without looking at the intruder, "we must make haste or I shall be late. Make me just as pretty as you possibly can, for the king will be in the audience." "I shall do my best, Miss Woodville." "But this man is not Fisher!" cried the old lady. Esther cast one swift glance at Mowbray, caught the kerchief about her shoulders, and mechanically plunged her blushing face into the ivory horn which served to protect her eyes and lashes while her hair was being powdered. The young nobleman respectfully saluted the Quakeress. "Mr. Fisher is ill," he exclaimed. "Oh, poor Fisher! What ails him?" "He has a fever, madam,--a high fever. It would break your heart to hear the poor man's teeth chatter. So I have come in his place." "It is impossible for you to dress my hair!" gasped Esther. "Impossible! And why, if you please?" "Because--because--why, you cannot, you don't know how!" "I have studied under the best masters. It is not for me to disparage Mr. Fisher; but I venture to say that my touch is more classic than his. I have worked for the French court."