"Oh, you may stare, madam; but I can see more than you think. Why, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, making eyes at a poor, penniless fiddler, when you might--" "I--I don't want to quarrel, mother," cried Cora, "but if you dare to speak to me again like that I'll not be answerable for myself." "There!--there!--there! There's gratitude!" "Gratitude? Where should I have been but for Mr Linnell's bravery, and which of the wretched dressed-up and titled dandies stirred to save me the other day? Richard Linnell is a brave, true-hearted man, too good to marry an actress." "She's mad--she's mad--she's mad! There's grace; and to her mother, too, who's thought of nothing but getting her on in the world, and brought her forward, so that now she can live on the best of everything, in the handsomest of rooms, and keep her carriage. She flies in her poor mother's face, and wants to get rid of her, I suppose. Oho--oho-- oh!" Mrs Dean plumped herself down into a gilded chair, and began to howl very softly. "Don't be a fool, mother," said Cora. "I don't want to quarrel, I tell you, so hold your tongue." "After the way I've brought her up, too," howled Mrs Dean--softly, so that the sound should not be heard downstairs. "After the way you've brought me up!" cried Cora fiercely. "Yes; brought me up to be sneered at by every lady I meet--brought me up so that I hate myself, and long sometimes to be one of the poor women we see knitting stockings on the beach." "Don't be a fool, Cory, my handsome, beautiful gal," cried Mrs Dean, suddenly starting up in her seat, dry-eyed and forgetful of her grief. "How can you be so stupid!" "Stupid!" cried Cora bitterly. "Is it stupid to wish myself a woman that some true-hearted man could love, instead of looking forward to a life of acting." "Oh, how you do go on to be sure. I am surprised at you, Cory. I know what you'd say about the life as them leads as ar'n't in the profession, but don't you be a fool, Betsy. `Your face is your fortune, sir, she said,' as the song says; working your fingers to the bone won't keep you out of the workus. Don't tell me. I know. I've known them as has tried it. Let them work as likes. I like a cutlet and a glass of fine sherry, and some well-made coffee with a noo-laid egg in it, and it ain't to be got by folks as works their fingers to the bone." "And who wants to work their fingers to the bone, mother?" cried Cora, tearing off and flinging down her handsome feathered hat. "In every face I see there's the look--`You're only one of the stage-players--a rogue and a vagabond.' I want to lead some life for which I need not blush."