“Thanks, I couldn’t very well.  I am going to play the good boy, and pass one night under the parental roof.  It isn’t often I get the chance.”

“I wish you would tell me where to hang up that piece of mistletoe,” she said, presently.

“I know where I should like to hang it up,” he made answer, with a sort of lazy impertinence.

“Where?”

“Just over your head.”

“Why?”

“You would see.”

She made a little grimace.

“Oh, no, I shouldn’t see anything of the kind,” she retorted, confidently.  “I should see nothing of the kind.  You haven’t acquired the right, young gentleman.  On the stage Harry Thornhill may claim his privileges—­or make believe; but off the stage he must keep his distance.”

That significant phrase about his not having acquired the right was almost a challenge.  And why should he not say, “Well, give me the right!” What did it matter?  It was of little concern what happened to him.  As he lay back in his chair and looked at her, he guessed what she would do.  He imagined the pretty little performance.  “Well, give me the right, then!” Miss Burgoyne turns round from the mirror.  “Lionel, what do you mean?”

“You know what I mean:  let us be engaged lovers off the stage as well as on.”  She hangs down her head.  He goes to her and kisses her—­without any mistletoe; she murmurs some doubt and hesitation, in her maiden shyness; he laughingly reassures her; it is all over, in half a dozen seconds.  And then?  Why, then he has secured for himself a sufficiently good-natured life-companion; it will be convenient in many ways, especially when they are engaged at the same theatre; he will marry in his own sphere, and everybody be satisfied.  If he has to give up his bachelor ways and habits, she will probably look after a little establishment as well as another; where there is no frantic passion on either side, there will be no frantic jealousy; and, after all, what is better than peace and quiet and content?

Was he too indolent, then, to accept this future that seemed to be offered to him?

“Isn’t it rather odd to go to a Brighton hotel for Christmas?” he said, at random.

“It’s the swagger thing to do, don’t you know?” said Miss Burgoyne, whose phraseology sometimes made him wince.  “It’s the latest fad among people who have no formal family ties.  I can imagine it will be the jolliest thing possible.  Instead of the big family gathering, where half the relations hate the sight of the other half, you have all nice people, picked friends and acquaintances; and you go away down to a place where you can have your choice of rooms, where you have every freedom and no responsibility, where you can have everything you want and no trouble in getting it.  Instead of foggy London, the sea; and at night, instead of Sir Roger de Coverley with a lot of hobbledehoys, you have a charming little dance, on a good floor, with capital partners.  Come, Master Lionel, change your mind; and you and I will go down together on Christmas morning in the Pullman.  Most of the others are there already; it’s only one or two poor professionals who will have to go down on Christmas-day.”