“Faver,” she shouted. “I’ve frowed my lamb what Santy Claus gave me, and the wheedle-wheedle in the band has tooked him somewhere.” Bram came down to the footlights and shook his fist at his small daughter, an intimate touch that drove the house frantic with delight and caused the solemn woman to observe to her neighbour that she didn’t know who did come to the theatre nowadays, such a common lot of people as they always seemed to be. One of the features of pantomimes about this period was the introduction of a sentimental song, usually allotted to the Fairy Queen as having some pretensions to a voice, in the course of which a boy of about twelve, chosen no doubt from the local church or chapel choir, rose from his seat in the front row of the circle and answered the singer on the stage, to the extreme delectation of the audience. The refrain of the song this year went: Sweet Suzanne, I’ll be your young man, They’ve never made your equal Since the world began. Won’t you take my name? For my heart’s aflame For love of you, My pretty Sue, My sweet Suzanne. and again: Your lips are red as rubies, Your eyes are diamonds rare, So while I have you, My lovely Sue, I’m as rich as a millionaire. Why the Fairy Queen should suddenly enter and break into this drivelling song was an unanswerable enigma, and why a little boy in an Eton suit with a very white collar and a very pink face should rise from the front row of the circle and sing each verse over again, while the Fairy Queen walked backward and forward with one hand held to her apparently entranced ear, was an equally unanswerable enigma. At any rate Letizia thoroughly disapproved of the anomaly. While all the women in the pit and gallery and stalls and circle were exclaiming: “Oh, isn’t he a little love? Well, I declare, if he isn’t reelly lovely. Oh, do listen to the little angel,” Letizia was frowning. Then with great deliberation, unobserved by Mrs. Pottage, who was languishing upon the sibilant cockney of this detestable young treble, she stood up on the seat and shouted: “Muvver!” The Fairy Queen, while still holding one hand to an entranced ear, shook her wand at her little mortal daughter. But Letizia was not to be deterred from the problem that was puzzling her sense of fitness. “Muvver!” she shouted again. “_Why_ is that boy?” Then Mrs. Pottage woke from the trance into which the duet had flung her and pulled Letizia down again into a sitting posture. “Duckie, you mustn’t call out and spoil the lovely singing.” “I don’t like that boy,” said Letizia firmly. “Yes, but listen.” “And my lamb what Santy Claus gave me doesn’t like him.” “Hush, duckie, hush!” “And I won’t listen. And I won’t look, Mrs. Porridge.” “Come, come, be a good girl.”