“Sir, your discernment will tell you ’tis impossible I should do myself justice in a lesson of music I know not. If you was at the music in honor of St. Cecilia some months since at the Crown Tavern you might recall the song “Pur dicesti,” which Madame Faustina sung there. Have I your permission to sing a passage or two?” Mr. Rich had not been present nor was skilled in music further than as his trade used it, but as in a kind of dream he gave his august permission, and the room rippled to the sweetest trills and melodious cries of the Italian master. He could contain himself no longer. He broke in upon the woven enchantment. He leaped up. “Say no more, child. Sing no more. I’ll search no further. You’re the cordial drop heaven in my cup has thrown. You’re my Polly!” For one second she looked scared and shrank, his face being so masterful. Then she saw his drift and her gravity broke up into dancing smiles of delight. He caught her hand and they stood linked a moment—Youth and joy at one. “Polly!” she cries. “Is Polly her name? Then indeed ’tis something new. Trust me, Sir, and I’ll make you the agreeablest Polly in all the world!” “You will, my girl, you will, for you can’t do otherwise. You have but to look and sing and if you were the veriest stick that ever trod the boards, you’ll have the town at your feet.” “Me a stick!” she cried, highly offended. “Why, Sir, my ‘Cherry’ was adorable. There wasn’t a man saw it but said so, and you know ’tis an arch part. I hope I’m no fool if I _do_ look one. Hear me do a speech of Lady Betty’s in ‘The Careless Husband.’” She dropt his hand, and advanced, tripping with the ease and grace of a fine modish woman: “O, my dear! I’m overjoyed to see you! I’m strangely happy today. I have just received my new scarf from London, and you are most critically come to give me your opinion of it.” Falling into her vein, Rich, laughing, took up Lady Easy’s part. He knew every line. “O, your servant, Madam. I’m a very indifferent judge, you know. What? Is it with sleeves?” (She languished and pouted at him) “O, impossible to tell you what it is. ’Tis all extravagance both in mode and fancy, my dear. I believe there’s six thousand yards of edging in it. Then, such an enchanting slope from the elbow—so lively, so noble, so coquette—” She broke off laughing. “_Now_, am I a stick, Lady Easy?” “My dear, you’re perfection’s self!” cries Mr. Rich. Then cautiously recollecting himself, because this might count in the salary, he said: “Consider yourself bespoke for Polly, Mrs. Beswick. And I would have you meet Mr. Gay tomorrow and consider the part with him. For though authors be very blundering in stagecraft, expecting the impossible and indeed a general hindrance, still they can’t be altogether set aside. Be pleased therefore to be here tomorrow at the hour of eleven in the morning when the conditions shall be adjusted to your satisfaction and mine.”