"Yes: quick--home, and change your things. Stop; where are you going?" "Down below, to fetch the dabs." "Damn the dabs, sir," whispered the Master of the Ceremonies excitedly; "you'll spoil the effect. Run, sir, run!" The youth hesitated a moment and then started and ran swiftly towards the cliff, amidst a shrill burst of cheers, the ladies fluttering their handkerchiefs, and fisherman Dick Miggles wishing he had been that there boy. "Denville--dear Denville," said her ladyship, "how proud you must be of such a son!" "The idol of my life, dear Lady Drelincourt," said the Master of the Ceremonies, arranging her dress in the bath-chair. "Shall I carry the poor dog?" "No, no--no, no, my darling Titi!" cried the lady, to his great relief. "Thomas, take me home quickly," she said, as the wet dog nestled in her crape lap and uttered a few snuffles of satisfaction. "Quick, or Titi will take cold Denville, see me safely home. My nerves are gone." "The shock, of course." "Yes, Denville, and I shall never forget your gallant son," sobbed her ladyship hysterically, as they passed through a lane of promenaders; "but I must not cry." It was indeed quite evident that such a giving way to natural feeling would have had serious results, and she was not veiled. So the rising tear was sent back, and Denville saw her safely home, forgetting for the moment his domestic troubles in his exultation, and making out a future for his son, as the rich Lady Drelincourt's protege--a commission--a handsome allowance. Perhaps--ah, who knew! Such unions had taken place before now. For the next half-hour he was living artificially, seeing his son advanced in life, and his daughter dwelling in a kind of fairy castle that had been raised through Lady Drelincourt's introduction. Then as he approached home a black cloud seemed to come down and close him in, the artificiality was gone, age seemed to be attacking him, and he moaned as he reached the door. "Heaven help me, and give me strength to keep up this actor's life, for I'm very, very weak." Volume One, Chapter XI. THE OPENING OF A VEIN. "Well, young Denville," said Dick Miggles, the great swarthy fisherman, whose black hair, dark eyes, and aquiline features told that his name was a corruption of Miguel, and that he was a descendant of one of the unfortunates who had been wrecked and imprisoned when the Spanish Armada came to grief, and had finally resolved to "remain an Englishman." Dick Miggles rarely did anything in the daytime but doze and smoke. Of course, he ate and drank, and, as on the present occasion, nursed the little girl that Mrs Miggles, who was as round and snub and English of aspect as her lord was Spanish, had placed in his arms. At night matters were different, and people did say--but never mind.