Mélanie rose in admiration. “What bootiful colour! What roses in cheeks.” The girls acknowledged her salute, and the rose left the cheek of Constance. Mélanie whispered Lady Coxe, “I will make for Mademoiselle Constance bootiful dress like used to wear La Dulaugier—the Comte’s own choice.” “Mélanie is come to take orders for Lady Ilminster’s dejooner.” “I shall have a very simple dress,” said Florence. “And so shall I,” chimed in Constance, in a voice low and tremulous. “Impossible!” broke in the seamstress—“impossible!” “Nonsense!” said Lady Coxe. “You will ruin Constance, Mélanie,” retorted Florence. “Mademoiselle Constance will marry a rich man, and think nothing of the trifles she spends now,” responded Mélanie, somewhat tartly. “You know what to make,” said Lady Coxe, in a voice that admitted of no reply. With an obsequious courtesy Mélanie left the room, and Constance, retiring to her own chamber, threw herself on her bed and wept bitterly. CHAPTER XI. It was dusk when Mélanie left the house—that dangerous summer dusk, when that is seen which you wish concealed, but when you can with difficulty perceive what you wish to discover. Mélanie wended her way towards Grosvenor Street, where she resided. As she reached the corner of the Square, however, she stopped at the corner of Charles Street, under a gas-lamp. She did not wait many minutes when a Clarence stopped at the crossing. A man jumped out. It was Count Rabelais. Holding open the door of the carriage, he admitted the dressmaker, who took her seat next a woman already inside. Jumping in again with a bow, the Count gave an order to the coachman, who dashed off under the gas-lamp. Augustus Bromley, who was passing at the moment, saw the whole transaction, as well as the face of the third occupant. It was that of Madame Carron. For the first time an idea entered his mind, how much like the face of the Count was to that of the actress. Hurrying homeward to write a line of excuse to a friend with whom he was engaged to dine, he seated himself not many minutes later in a stall of the St James’s Theatre. The first play, a short one, was over, and in the next Madame Carron was to appear. Her part that night involved one or two songs, and a piano was wheeled into the orchestra. Bromley, who was sitting at one end, could see Madame Carron in the wings with Angelo Magens, a pianist and composer of some celebrity. They were together engaged earnestly over a sheet of music paper, beating time and giving or demanding explanation. At length Bromley perceived that the play was about to begin, from Madame Carron plucking at her skirts, and from Mr Magens’s appearance in the orchestra. The musician turned round, and, at a signal from Bromley, came to the neighbourhood of his stall, and leaned over to speak to him. “How d’ye do, Angelo?” asked Bromley. “Ages since I’ve seen you. How are Mrs Angelo and Adelaide?”