She had not quite given up hope, though it was no longer joined to bright confidence in ultimate success, when a small part was intrusted to her which enabled her to show unmistakable signs of talent. It was such a very small part, and it would so undoubtedly have improved the piece from a dramatist’s point of view to cut out the scene it was in altogether, that the critics took no notice, and the public did not seem impressed. But it drew the attention of her companions to her; and Annie, with her heart beating wildly, overheard more than one prediction that she would “get on.” With reawakened ambition, her old high spirits came back to her; the cloud of cold reserve which closed over her in spite of herself when she was unhappy, disappeared, and for the first time Annie found pleasure in her profession. The society afforded at that time by the theater she was in, was some of the pleasantest in London. It included men and women who were among the world’s recognized pets--women of beauty and men of wit, handsome actors, and two actresses of whom Europe had acknowledged the genius. Annie felt the charm of this brilliant circle, which was indeed, as theaters so seldom are, as attractive as the outside world imagined it to be. She was sitting in the green-room one evening, between the acts, when two of the actors came in, discussing the beauty of a lady who sat in one of the boxes nearest to the stage. “I’m sure I’ve seen her in the Park,” said one; “and I’ve been told her name; but I forget it.” “Is that her husband behind her--the tall man with the eye-glass?” “Don’t know, I’m sure. Should think not.” The other laughed. “She is the handsomest woman we have had in front for a long time--much better-looking than any of the professional beauties. Perhaps she is a professional beauty--eh?” “No--too good-looking.” It was the other’s turn to laugh; and, when they were called on to the stage, they were still criticising the unknown fair one and anxious for another view of her. Annie’s curiosity was excited, and, contrary to her custom of devoting her attention entirely to what was going on on the stage, she managed, on her next appearance to say a few lines, to get an opportunity of looking toward the box the two speakers had indicated. And she gave one of the slightest, most imperceptible of starts, for the lady was Lilian, exquisitely dressed and looking handsomer than ever. Annie could not see the face of the man behind her in her glance at the box; but she was anxious to know who it was, and later in the evening she was satisfied; for a young actor named Gerald Gibson told another in her hearing that the lady was Mrs. Falconer, that he had been to a dance at her house two nights before, and that “the tall man with the eye-glass,” who was one of the other occupants of the box, was a Colonel Richardson, who had just returned from abroad.