The hasty scrawl concluded with numerous little caressing exclamations in Italian diminutives. This done, Emilia thought: “But he will look up and see me!” She resolved not to send it till they were about to quit the theatre. Consequently, Braintop, on his arrival, was told to sit down. “You don't look cheerful in the pit,” said Mr. Pole. “You're above it?--eh? You're all alike in that. None of you do what your dads did. Up-up-up? You may get too high, eh?--Gallery?” and Mr. Pole winked knowingly and laughed. Braintop, thus elevated, tried his best to talk to Emilia, who sat half fascinated with the fear of seeing her father lift his eyes and recognize her suddenly. She sat boldly in the front, as before; not being a young woman to hide her head where there was danger, and having perhaps a certain amount of the fatalism which is often youth's philosophy in the affairs of life. “If this is to be, can I avert it?” Mr. Pole began to nod at the actors, heavily. He said to Emilia, “If there is any fun going on, give me a nudge.” Emilia kept her eyes on her father in the orchestra, full of pity for his deplorable wig, in which she read his later domestic history, and sad tales of the family dinners. “Do you see one of those”--she pointed him out to Braintop; “he is next to the leader, with his back to us. Are you sure? I want you to give him this note before he goes; when we go. Will you do it? I shall always be thankful to you.” Considering what Braintop was ready to do that he might be remembered for a day and no more, the request was so very moderate as to be painful to him. “You will leave him when you have given it into his hand. You are not to answer any questions,” said Emilia. With a reassuring glance at the musician's wig, Braintop bent his head. “Do see,” she pursued, “how differently he bows from the other men, though it is only dance music. Oh, how his ears are torn by that violoncello! He wants to shriek:--he bears it!” She threw a piteous glance across the agitated instruments, and Braintop was led to inquire: “Is he anything particular?” “He can bring out notes that are more like honey--if you can fancy a thread of honey drawn through your heart as if it would never end! He is Italian.” Braintop modestly surveyed her hair and brows and cheeks, and taking the print of her eyes on his brain to dream over, smelt at a relationship with the wry black wig, which cast a halo about it. The musicians laid down their instruments, and trooped out, one by one. Emilia perceived a man brush against her father's elbow. Her father flicked at his offended elbow with the opposite hand, and sat crumpled up till all had passed him: then went out alone. That little action of disgust showed her that he had not lost spirit, albeit condemned to serve amongst an inferior race, promoters of discord.