The Chevalier bowed and submitted, watching the countenance of the operator all the time with an anxiety that was not lost upon me.

“Do you sleep well?” asked my father, holding the fragile little wrist between his finger and thumb.

“Passably, Monsieur.”

“Dream much?”

“Ye—­es, I dream.”

“Are you subject to giddiness?”

The Chevalier shrugged his shoulders and looked uneasy.

“C’est vrai” he acknowledged, more unwillingly than ever, “J’ai des vertiges.”

My father relinquished his hold and scribbled a rapid prescription.

“There, sir,” said he, “get that preparation made up, and when you next feel as you felt just now, drink a wine-glassful.  I should recommend you to keep some always at hand, in case of emergency.  You will find further directions on the other side.”

The little Frenchman attempted to get up with his usual vivacity; but was obliged to balance himself against the back of a chair.

“Monsieur,” said he, with another of his profound bows, “I thank you infinitely.  You make me too much attention; but I am grateful.  And, Monsieur, my little girl—­my child that is far away across the sea—­she thanks you also. Elle m’aime, Monsieur—­elle m’aime, cette pauvre petite!  What shall she do if I die?”

Again he raised his hand to his brow.  He was unconscious of anything theatrical in the gesture.  He was in sad earnest, and his eyes were wet with tears, which he made no effort to conceal.

My father shuffled restlessly in his chair.

“No obligation—­no obligation at all,” he muttered, with a touch of impatience in his voice.  “And now, what about those tickets?  I suppose, Basil, you’re dying to see all this tomfoolery?”

“That I am, sir,” said I, joyfully.  “I should like it above all things!”

The Chevalier glided forward, and laid a couple of little pink cards upon my father’s desk.

“If,” said he, timidly, “if Monsieur will make me the honor to accept....”

“Not for the world, sir—­not for the world!” interposed my father.  “The boy shan’t go, unless I pay for the tickets.”

“But, Monsieur....”

“Nothing of the kind, sir.  I cannot hear of it.  What are the prices of the seats?”

Our little visitor looked down and was silent; but I replied for him.

“The reserved seats,” I whispered, “are half-a-crown each.”

“Then I will take eight reserved,” said my father, opening a drawer in his desk and bringing out a bright, new sovereign.

The little Frenchman started.  He could hardly believe in such munificence.

“When?  How much?” stammered he, with a pleasant confusion of adverbs.

“Eight,” growled my father, scarcely able to repress a smile.

“Eight? mon Dieu, Monsieur, how you are generous!  I shall keep for you all the first row.”