A man is never known so thoroughly in the domestic relations of life as he is by a woman like this, whose lover he has been since almost the first days of acting together. With Miss Fitzallan, Carl throws off all restraint, and has no silence, such as he would have to preserve with a woman who was his--wife. It is at Miss Fitzallan’s house that he feels himself completely at home--where he can fling himself _sans cérémonie_ with dusty boots on satin sofas, smoke unrebuked the cigar interdicted in other drawing-rooms, and order the dainty dishes he prefers. He has suffered _ennui_ covertly in the presence of the _grande dames_, in whose _salons_ he had been gratified to find himself, but he yawns unreservedly in the very face of the Aspasia who belongs to him _pro tem_. To Miss Fitzallan he speaks openly--thinks audibly--and is exactly the same before her as he is by himself. It is Balzac who says that if the mirror of truth be found anywhere, it is probably within the boudoir of Venus. “Tell me, Carl, what you are thinking of? Is it of that doll of a thing I saw you go and speak to the other night, between the acts? Is it the money I hear she has or her silly face that runs in your head? And yet--no, I don’t care to hear it is her face, for then I should be jealous--jealous as a tiger-cat, Carl! and jealousy is an ugly sensation to which I have not been subject, thanks to the goodness of an appreciative public!” And as she speaks, she walks up to the sofa, and bends over him with a steady, keen look, adding in her tenderest, softest tone: “Surely, Carl, you are not going to bowl me over for another woman?” Carl gives a final puff to his nearly consumed cigar, and deliberately removing it from his mouth, throws it negligently into a superb Dresden casket that stands near him on a marble slab. Then he does not rise, but quietly turns over to his side and faces her. Not a gleam of liking for her could be traced on his handsome aquiline features by the most adept of physiognomists. His eyes have a cold and callous light in them as they meet the fine melting brown orbs that search for a reciprocal look, and the tone of his voice is hard and utterly passionless as he answers her. “Whatever heart I have is, of course, yours, Flora, but one cannot subsist on love, you see. No one knows this better than you do, judging by all this splendour. You have said you were in love with me--and I believe you are, but nevertheless, that love hasn’t been enough for you, and the Duke of Beaudesert, Lord Lennerdale, etc., etc., have all been tolerated when Cupid came, laden with marqueterie and Chelsea, and so on. The ‘doll of a thing,’ as you are pleased to call Miss Meredyth, is not such a magnificent piece of flesh and blood as yourself--but she is _very respectable_!” The colour flames up into the leading lady’s cheek, her eyes shoot angrily, and for an instant she looks quite plain. His words sting like nettles.