Another time, as Wynyard was waiting outside a theatre, Aurea Morven and her uncle were coming out. She looked so pretty--lovely, indeed--in a white cloak with a knot of silver ribbon in her dark hair. Fortunately, she did not recognise him, for at the moment Tottie dashed out of the stage door in a violent hurry, followed by two women and a man, and called authoritatively-- “Go ahead, Owen, old boy! The ‘Troc.’ as hard as you can tear!” Wynyard had been in the present situation for six weeks, and, although the pay was good and punctual, he found the life wearing. He never knew what it was to have a day off--or any time to himself; other employés had Sundays--Sunday to him was the heaviest day in the whole week. Tottie, besides her professional engagements, appeared to live in an irregular round of luncheons, suppers, bridge, and balls--of a certain class. She was madly extravagant, and seemed to take a peculiar delight in throwing away her money. The sallow-cheeked parlour-maid, who had a fancy for Wynyard, and generally contrived to have a word with him when she came downstairs with cloaks or shoes--informed him in confidence that “the missus was a-goin’ it!” “But what can you expect?” she asked, with her nose in the air. “Her mother kept a tripe shop; she ain’t no class! Of course the money’s good as long as it’s there; but I don’t fancy these sort of fast situations. Give _me_ gentry.” “But Mrs. Foote’s all right,” protested Wynyard; “it’s her friends that are such a queer lot--and, I’m afraid, they cheat her.” “You bet they do! And as to her being all right--I should say she was all wrong, if you ask _me_. She’s no more Mrs. Cavendish Foote than I am; she was divorced three years ago. Cavendish Foote--he was a young fool on the Stock Exchange; she broke him, and now he’s gone to America.” An exceedingly unpleasant idea had lately been born in Owen’s mind; it was this--that his employer had taken a fancy to _him_. She leant with unnecessary weight on his arm when she stepped in and out of the motor; summoned him to her sitting-room on various pretexts to give him notes; offered cigarettes, talked to him confidentially, and begged him “to look upon her as a friend.” “I like you, Owen, I swear I do, and I’d do a lot for you, so I would too--and don’t you make any mistake about that!” Wynyard found this state of affairs extremely embarrassing--especially when they went for trips into the country alone, and, wrapped up in furs, she would come and sit beside him, and tell him of all her successes; stop at inns, order lunch, and invite him to share the meal, and drink champagne! But this he steadily declined. The cooler and more reserved he was, naturally the more _empressé_ she became; and one of her pals, in his hearing, had loudly chaffed her on being “_mashed on her chauffeur_.”