‘Then of it make a farce!’ said Raikes, for the making of farces was Franko’s profession.  ’Wherefore so downcast!  What a line!  There! let’s walk on.  Let us the left foot forward stout advance.  I care not for the herd.’

‘’Tis love!’ cried Franko.

‘Ay, an’ it be!’ Jack gloomily returned.

‘For ever cruel is the sweet Saldar?’

Raikes winced at this name.

‘A truce to banter, Franko!’ he said sternly:  but the subject was opened, and the wound.

‘Love!’ he pursued, mildly groaning.  ’Suppose you adored a fascinating woman, and she knew—­positively knew—­your manly weakness, and you saw her smiling upon everybody, and she told you to be happy, and egad, when you came to reflect, you found that after three months’ suit you were nothing better than her errand-boy?  A thing to boast of, is it not, quotha?’

‘Love’s yellow-fever, jealousy, methinks,’ Franko commenced in reply; but Raikes spat at the emphasized word.

’Jealousy!—­who’s jealous of clergymen and that crew?  Not I, by Pluto!  I carried five messages to one fellow with a coat-tail straight to his heels, last week.  She thought I should drive my curricle—­I couldn’t afford an omnibus!  I had to run.  When I returned to her I was dirty.  She made remarks!’

‘Thy sufferings are severe—­but such is woman!’ said Franko.  ’Gad, it’s a good idea, though.’  He took out a note-book and pencilled down a point or two.  Raikes watched the process sardonically.

‘My tragedy is, then, thy farce!’ he exclaimed.  ’Well, be it so!  I believe I shall come to song-writing again myself shortly-beneath the shield of Catnach I’ll a nation’s ballads frame.  I’ve spent my income in four months, and now I ’m living on my curricle.  I underlet it.  It ’s like trade—­it ’s as bad as poor old Harrington, by Jove!  But that isn’t the worst, Franko!’ Jack dropped his voice:  ’I believe I’m furiously loved by a poor country wench.’

‘Morals!’ was Franko’s most encouraging reproof.

‘Oh, I don’t think I’ve even kissed her,’ rejoined Raikes, who doubted because his imagination was vivid.  ’It ’s my intellect that dazzles her.  I ’ve got letters—­she calls me clever.  By Jove! since I gave up driving I’ve had thoughts of rushing down to her and making her mine in spite of home, family, fortune, friends, name, position—­everything!  I have, indeed.’

Franko looked naturally astonished at this amount of self-sacrifice.  ’The Countess?’ he shrewdly suggested.

       ’I’d rather be my Polly’s prince,
        Than yon great lady’s errand-boy!’

Raikes burst into song.

He stretched out his hand, as if to discard all the great ladies who were passing.  By the strangest misfortune ever known, the direction taken by his fingers was toward a carriage wherein, beautifully smiling opposite an elaborately reverend gentleman of middle age, the Countess de Saldar was sitting.  This great lady is not to be blamed for deeming that her errand-boy was pointing her out vulgarly on a public promenade.  Ineffable disdain curled off her sweet olive visage.  She turned her head.