First a gypsy boy with long black curls and continuous genuflections, and a fiddle, and doleful complaints that he could not play it, and that it was the fiddle's fault.
"Well, it is for once," said Hope.

"Why, you little duffer, don't you see the bridge is too low ?" He slackened the string, removed the bridge, fitted on a higher one, tuned it, and handed it over.
"There," said he, "play us one of the tunes of Egypt.

'The Rogue's March,' eh?
and mizzle." The supple Oriental grinned and made obeisances, pretended not to know "The Rogue's March" (to the hen-house), and went off playing "Johnny Comes Marching Home." (Bridewell to wit.) Then did Miss Clifford's French maid trip forward smirking with a parasol to mend: _Desolee de vous deranger, Monsieur Hope, mais notre demoiselle est au desespoir: oh, ces parasols Anglais_! "_Connu_," said Hope, "_voyons ca_;" and in a minute repaired the article, and the girl spread it, and went off wriggling and mincing with it, so that there was a pronounced horse-laugh at her minauderies.
Then advanced a rough young English nurse out of a farm-house with a child that could just toddle.

She had left an enormous doll with Hope for repairs, and the child had given her no peace for the last week.

Luckily the doll was repaired, and handed over.