“That is enough, madam, to convince me that my heart is yours. Sweet one, I throw myself at your feet. Let me be your protector. Let me hold you from your persecutors. Dearest lady, marry me and you are safe.” “Thank heaven--thank heaven I have found a friend!” murmured Kitty. “You agree?” said Mr. Bates, rising to his feet. “Oh, sir, I am overcome with gratitude,” cried Kitty, throwing herself into his arms. “An heiress--and mine,” Mr. Bates whispered. “Mistress Clive, the gentleman has arrived--oh, lud! what has Kitty been up to?” The landlord was standing at the door with his hands raised. “'T is my brother, Jimmy Raftor,” said Kitty, coolly arranging the disordered hood of her cloak before the glass. “Jimmy is one of the best pistol-shots in all Ireland, and that's saying a good deal. Show the gentleman in, Mr. Landlord.” Mr. Bates stood aghast. “Mistress Clive--not Kitty Clive of Drury Lane?” he faltered. “I am Kitty Clive of Drury Lane, at your service, sir, if you should need another lesson to convince you that even the most ridiculous story, if plausibly told, will carry conviction to the most astute of men.” Kitty Clive sank in a mock curtesy; the landlord roared with laughter; Mr. Bates stood amazed in the center of the room. A QUESTION OF ART I If only she had a heart she would be perfect,” said Mr. Garrick to his friend, Mrs. Woffington. “Ay, as an actress, not as a woman,” said Mrs. Woffington. “'T is not the perfect women who have been most liberally supplied with that organ.” “Faith, Madam Peggy, I, David Garrick, of Drury Lane Theatre, have good reason to set much more store upon the perfect actress than the perfect woman,” said Mr. Garrick. “If I had no rent to pay and no actors to pay, I might be led to spend a profitable hour or two over the consideration of so interesting a question as the relative merits of the perfect woman with no heart worth speaking of and the perfect actress with a dangerous superfluity of the same organ. Under existing conditions, however, I beg leave to--” “Psha! Davy,” said Margaret; “try not your scholarship upon so poor a thing as myself! It seems to me that you have never quite recovered from the effects of your early training at the feet of our friend, Mr. Johnson.” “Alas! Peggy,” said Garrick, “I have forgot all the better part of Mr. Johnson's instruction. He has no reason to be proud of me.” “And yet he is proud of you, and, by my faith, he has some reason to be so. Was it not he made you an actor?” “He! Mr. Johnson? oh, Lord, he never ceased to inculcate upon us a just hatred and contempt of all that appertains to the stage.” “Ay, and that was the means of making you thoroughly interested in all that appertains to the stage, my friend. But I hold as I have always held, that Mr. Johnson gave you first chance. “What sophistry is this that you have seized upon, my dear? My first chance?”