He had risen, and now advanced to the scene of action, the press giving way to him. His air, his obvious rank, no less than his hint of a dangerous temper, were his sufficient passports, not only with the company but to the landlord’s better consideration. The man scowled and muttered; but he stood halted. Hamilton blew a kiss to the rosy nymph before he turned on her persecutor. “Duress! House-breaking!” quoth he. “What terms are these to hold an angel fast? Tell us her crime, bluffer!” “Angel!” responded the landlord deeply. “Aye, a pretty angel, to cully a poor innkeeper out of his dues! Look you here, master--you that are so righteous--will you pay your angel her shot?” “She owes you board and lodging?” “Aye, she does; seven days and more.” George looked up at the balcony. “Is that true, child?” The girl had already produced a little handkerchief, which she now dabbed to her eyes, her breath catching very touchingly. “Sure I would find the money if I could,” she said. “He might give me credit for my good intentions.” “I’ll give you credit for nothing!” roared the landlord. “God A’mighty! She’ll be asking for a cash advance on her good intentions next!” George hushed him down. “Whence do you hail, child,” he said, “and whither make?” She whimpered. “I’m but a poor maid, out of Wiltshire, kind sir, and ’tis a husband I seek.” “A husband!” quoth he. “Alack that I’m none myself, to accommodate your need. But if a bachelor might serve----” The crowd hooted again. “Pay her shot, Captain, and hold her hostage for it.” “Shall I?” said Hamilton. He addressed the childish countenance above, observing for the first time the tiniest of patches placed under the corner of its baby mouth. That gave him some sniggering thought. It seemed to suggest the footlight Chloe rather than the genuine article. Moreover the baggage appeared, for all her seeming innocence, quite self-possessed. He wondered. “What do you say, child?” he demanded. She had fallen back a little, using her handkerchief. Now she started, as if conscious of some question, and leaned forward again. “Was it the gentleman with the plum-pudding eye that spoke?” she said. A clap of new laughter greeted the seeming artless sally. George cachinnated with the rest, but in a mortified fashion. “Yes,” says he; “and a very sweet simile, my dear.” He turned to the landlord. “What is she, vintner?” “_God_ knows,” answered the man morosely. “A strolling play-actress, like as not. She’s no good, whatever she is.” “No good is a better woman than you, you radish!” cried the girl. “That’s certain,” said Hamilton. “You are answered, bluffer.” “Answered?” said the man. “Aye, I know her. Trust her young tongue to answer, though you provoked it in the middle of a song.” “Song? Does she sing?” “Does she _not_--like the wicked young syrup she is. Sings like a kettle.” The lady laughed. “And best when in hot water. Shall I sing to you now?”