“Don’t stare at me like that or I shall throw something at you, in a minute!” blazed wrathfully the object of her attention, reading that look and starting suddenly up in a temper. “I can see how it is: you hate me. No; don’t trouble yourself to tell a polite lie--that sort of thing is wasted on me--and besides, the sentiment is reciprocated. I think I never saw a more ill-favored, unlovable creature in my life! It positively makes me ill to look at you, with your way of looking at people as though they were dirt beneath your feet. Upon my soul, I’m half inclined to send you back to where you came from and to have nothing more to do with you.” “I wish you would,” said Dora impulsively. “It was a hard life at Miss Skimmers’ but--I wish you would.” “Oh, do you? Well, I won’t, then! I’m not the kind of person to invest in stocks and then tear up the certificates. I may be like a hen who has hatched out an eagle’s egg, but--the eagle is of some use to me at present, and I’m not going to have it kicked out of the nest, simply because it desires that sort of thing. I’ve made all my arrangements with Milt Dante, and I’m going to put you on the stage.” “No, never!” said Dora, finding her voice suddenly. “I don’t want to go on the stage; I prefer to be as I am.” “Oh, do you? Well, perhaps you haven’t any voice in the matter. You are under age, and I am your legal guardian, and it strikes me that you are going to do as you are bid, whether it meets with your approval or not. I’ve made all arrangements with Mr. Dante, and you are going to appear here--in this very town--to-morrow night, and are going to be ‘featured’ on the bill as ‘Miss Vance, the niece of Mrs. Charles Bonair, of Thetford Towers,’ and you are going, in that character, to lead the March of the Amazons and to wear as little as the law allows in the way of dress.” “I will never do it!” said Dora, starting to her feet, her whole body shaking and her cheeks aflame, as she thought of the “ladies” she had seen on the posters. “I don’t know whether you have told the truth or not about my being the daughter of a gentleman, but--I will never do a thing like that. I will run away first.” The figure in the chair rose unsteadily, in a froth of lace and a billow of roseate silk, and laughingly drained out the last drop from a champagne bottle on the table and drank it. “You won’t get the chance to run away,” she said, “I shall keep you under my own eye until then. You will go with me to the theater to-night, and I will put you under Milt Dante’s care whenever I am obliged to leave you. As for your appearing on the stage to-morrow night, you’ll do that if I have to chloroform you and have you carried on. I’ll pay that woman for trying to shut me out of Crumplesea, make no mistake about that. Now, come and help me dress; it’s time I was off to the theater, and that fool of a Bodwin will be round here with his carriage presently, to drive me there.” CHAPTER XLV. A VIXEN.