“Only enough for—­a grave,” was the harrowing reply.

This dreary dialogue was here interrupted by the appearance of the father in tights, knee buckles, velvet coat, ruffles, a powdered wig, and a general air of having been got up for a great occasion.  He carefully picked his way through the furniture to his daughter, and kissed her on the forehead.

“Are you happy, my dear daughter?” he asked.

“Happy?  Oh! yes, father, I am so happy!  See how I smile.”  So saying, she made a feeble attempt to smile, which was a most artistic failure, and brought out another tribute of applause.

The father, not detecting the sad irony of the smile, replied: 

“It is indeed fortunate that you are enabled not only to achieve your own happiness by this marriage, but also to redeem what is dearer to me than all else in this world—­my mercantile credit.  But here they come.”

“Here they come,” was the cue which was to bring in Signor Rodicaso and party; but the Signor was momentarily delayed by the giving way of two buttons in his doublet.  When he had repaired damages with pins as well as he could, he emerged into view, accompanied by a notary and a pair of friendly witnesses.  The Signor, this time, proved to be the author of the play, who had kindly consented, at five minutes’ notice, to take the part in which the hapless Chickson had broken down.  Stealing behind, in the shadow of the others, was distinctly seen (by all except the people on the stage) the burly form of Uncle Bignolio.

To satisfy the conventional idea of dramatic concealment, his left leg was plunged in obscurity behind the scenes, while the rest of his figure stood out in bold relief.  He was observed, by those who watched him narrowly, to send a pleasant wink and nod to Bidette, who responded with a scarcely perceptible pout.

On the entrance of Signor Rodicaso and friends, Fidelia rose, turned toward them, and made a profound courtesy, as if to signify her abject submission.  Signor Rodicaso bowed with equal profundity, and straightway proceeded to make a speech to the lady, in which he spoke of the wild idolatry that he had long felt for her, and alluded most disparagingly to his own merits.  If the Signor’s statements could be relied on, he was totally unworthy of an alliance with the beautiful Fidelia; in fact, was a “dog who would be proud only but to bask in the sunshine of her smile.”

This singular address, extending over “one length,” or forty-five lines, excited little less astonishment on the stage than in the audience.  For it was not set down in the acting copy, but had been improvised by the author, to better the part of the Signor, which, as originally written, was destitute of Long and effective orations.

Fidelia smiled, and could only reply to this unpremeditated effusion by several modest inclinations of the head.  The other actors and actress turned aside to conceal their grins.  Uncle Bignolio alone fulfilled the requirements of his part, by casting Mephistophelean leers at the Signor, and now and then stealthily shaking his fists at him.