“Quite well, thank you, Mr Bromley. How well you’re looking!” “Rather hard at work, that’s all.” “I can understand that, in your important avocations.” “By the way, Angelo, do you know the Carron well?” “Well, Mr Bromley, she’s been very kind to a poor man like me.” “Do you think we’ve time to go round and have a glass of sherry?” “Not now; at the end of the next act;” and the bell rang for the curtain to rise. As it rose, Bromley perceived behind Madame Carron the figure of Rabelais. The act was soon over, and Magens came for his glass of sherry. Bromley led him to the public-house adjoining, and the liquor was poured out. As they both sipped it, Bromley again began, “How well she did that last scene!” “Admirably; she is a wonderful woman!” “Indeed she is, Magens. By the way, where is Monsieur Carron?” “Oh! he is dead, I believe.” “Then is that story true about her?” “If you have heard anything against her reputation, I can undertake to declare it false.” Little Magens, when under the united influence of sentiment and sherry, could be very fiery. He was a grateful homuncule. “Of _course_ not,” rejoined his interrogator. “I mean that other story.” “Are you trying to pump me, Mr Bromley?” “It would take a cleverer man than me to do that, Angelo—another glass—there’s lots of time. We’ve only been five minutes, and the _entr’acte_ at a French play is never less than a quarter of an hour. (Glasses filled.) You were saying—” “Well, the only story I have ever heard is about her family. They say, with I do not know what foundation, that she is of a good family, and is devoting all her profits to the support of it. She certainly does not live in the style of a person earning the immense salaries she receives.” “Rabelais, I suppose, knows all about it.” Magens shook his head, swallowed the remainder of his glass, and silently led the way back to the theatre. “By the way, do you know anything of Madame Mélanie, the seamstress? She is much employed by actresses, I believe? A young lady was asking me, whether she made Mademoiselle Dulaugier’s ballet-dresses.” “I know her very little myself. Mrs Magens knows her.” “Well, Magens, good evening. Can you come and dine with me to-morrow at the Garrick?” “To-morrow, I am engaged here all the evening, and I suppose your hours are fashionable.” “Well, another day.” When he resumed his stall, Bromley perceived that a box near the stage was newly filled. He looked up, and there was Lady Coxe and her three daughters. Near Constance sat the Count. Her eye caught his, and she blushed deeply. Bromley went revolving in his mind many things. At length he made up his mind, and sauntered into the box. The Count greeted him with unusual civility. Lady Coxe invited him to a chair next her. “Mr Bromley,” she whispered, “do me a favour. The Congte is most anxious to go to Lady Ilminster’s. Can you, do you think—can you manage this?”