"Adzooks!" exclaimed Fanshawe, "the fellow’s face is the funniest part of the performance. Look’ee, Harry, ’tis as sober as a judge’s on assize; one would think ’twere a hanging matter." Harry had been so tickled by this odd mode of dancing that he had not noticed the performer’s features. He glanced at them now, started with a sudden gasp, and cried: "By the Lord Harry, ’tis——" "’Tis what?" said Fanshawe, looking at him in surprise. "Oh, nothing!" "Come, I scent a mystery. Unravel, sir!" "’Tis nothing. See, Fanshawe, the dance is over. Let us go on." Without waiting for his companion, he pushed his way back through the crowd. "Faith, I don’t understand you of late, Rochester," said Fanshawe in a half-vexed tone, when he overtook him. "You’re moody, full of whimsies, all starts and surprises. Would to Heaven that the duke would bethink him of that paper you gave him! You need settling in life. Why don’t you go to him, or to Lord Godolphin again? ’Tis few suitors but would show more perseverance." "Not I. ’Twas against the grain to beg even one favour. I’d rather earn my bread by scraping a fiddle, or dancing on my knees like—like the poor fellow there." "Well, let me tell you, you’ll rue your independence. Adsbud, who would get on in this world if he didn’t pay court to the great! Your starveling poet writes a flattering dedication to a lord—for pay! Your snivelling parson toadies to the lord of the manor—for a meal! I except your father, Harry; he was a rare one. ’Tis the way o’ the world; we must all do it, or pay the penalty." "Be the penalty what it will, I’ll pay it rather than play lick-spittle to any man." Fanshawe shrugged. "By the way," he said, "Mr. Berkeley is in town—to pay his court to someone, I swear. ’Tis said he is buying a commission for that cub his son; pray Heaven it be not in my regiment! That’s the way o’ the world again. Here’s Piers Berkeley, the young popinjay, all grins and frippery, like to carry the Queen’s colours in a fine regiment because his father has a long purse, and you, a deal more fit for it, kicking your heels for want of a rich father or a richer patron. I fear ’tis all up with your chances now; but I wish you luck. I go to Flanders in a week; home to-morrow to say good-bye; who knows when we may meet again!" The two friends bade each other a cordial farewell; then Harry returned sadly to his lodging. Some two hours later Sherebiah came back. "What do ’ee think, Master Harry?" he said. "I ha’ seed old Squire." "I knew he was in town," replied Harry. "And what do you think I’ve seen, Sherry?" Detecting a something strange in his tone, Sherebiah gave him a hard look. "I never was no good at guessen," he said. "Mebbe the German giant at Hercules’ Pillars, or the liven fairy in Bridges Street."