This connoisseur was suddenly fascinated, and had adopted the Laughing Man.  He did not come every evening, but when he came he led the public—­applause grew into acclamation—­success rose not to the roof, for there was none, but to the clouds, for there were plenty of them.  Which clouds (seeing that there was no roof) sometimes wept over the masterpiece of Ursus.

His enthusiasm caused Ursus to remark this man, and Gwynplaine to observe him.

They had a great friend in this unknown visitor.

Ursus and Gwynplaine wanted to know him; at least, to know who he was.

One evening Ursus was in the side scene, which was the kitchen-door of the Green Box, seeing Master Nicless standing by him, showed him this man in the crowd, and asked him,—­

“Do you know that man?”

“Of course I do.”

“Who is he?”

“A sailor.”

“What is his name?” said Gwynplaine, interrupting.

“Tom-Jim-Jack,” replied the inn-keeper.

Then as he redescended the steps at the back of the Green Box, to enter the inn, Master Nicless let fall this profound reflection, so deep as to be unintelligible,—­

“What a pity that he should not be a lord.  He would make a famous scoundrel.”

Otherwise, although established in the tavern, the group in the Green Box had in no way altered their manner of living, and held to their isolated habits.  Except a few words exchanged now and then with the tavern-keeper, they held no communication with any of those who were living, either permanently or temporarily, in the inn; and continued to keep to themselves.

Since they had been at Southwark, Gwynplaine had made it his habit, after the performance and the supper of both family and horses—­when Ursus and Dea had gone to bed in their respective compartments—­to breathe a little the fresh air of the bowling-green, between eleven o’clock and midnight.

A certain vagrancy in our spirits impels us to take walks at night, and to saunter under the stars.  There is a mysterious expectation in youth.  Therefore it is that we are prone to wander out in the night, without an object.

At that hour there was no one in the fair-ground, except, perhaps, some reeling drunkard, making staggering shadows in dark corners.  The empty taverns were shut up, and the lower room in the Tadcaster Inn was dark, except where, in some corner, a solitary candle lighted a last reveller.  An indistinct glow gleamed through the window-shutters of the half-closed tavern, as Gwynplaine, pensive, content, and dreaming, happy in a haze of divine joy, passed backwards and forwards in front of the half-open door.

Of what was he thinking?  Of Dea—­of nothing—­of everything—­of the depths.

He never wandered far from the Green Box, being held, as by a thread, to Dea.  A few steps away from it was far enough for him.

Then he returned, found the whole Green Box asleep, and went to bed himself.