My name is Blue-blood! In the House of Lords My father sits and has his say; My mother was a Mistress of the Robes, Before those awful Tories had their sway! Thou forgettest, Ferdinand, that sangre azul flows Through all my veins; that in my face Not only love, but high ambition glows, With which, alas! thou never canst keep pace! Lapped in soft luxury, born in marble halls, Vassals and serfs to answer to my calls, I could not brave the humiliating woe Of in this world coming down so low. Ferdinand, forgive me! and let me go! Without my purse full, I should surely pine, I love good dinners, and I love good wine; My beauty decked in velvets, satins, lace, A jewelled diadem to crown my face. Ferdinand, I leave thee! heart-broken, with a sigh, But without gold and diamonds I should die!--die! Upon this confession Ferdinand shows the laceration of his feelings by striking another attitude, an attitude of giant but picturesque despair. He folds his arms tightly across his chest, strides heavily towards her, and wears generally a depressed appearance. “Oh!” he exclaims, lifting up his fine eyes to the gods in the gallery. “Lend me, I pray, strength to bear her perfidy.” As his glance slowly travels earthwards he espies Zai, and starts slightly, but the sight of her sweet face gives real pathos and eloquence to his voice as he murmurs tenderly: “Yolande! Beloved Yolande! Thou knowest not the vulture that gnaws my heart, or thou would’st pause in thy fiendish work. False Yolande! Thou hast _never_ known what heart is, but-- “‘I will tell thee what it is to love. It is to build with human thoughts a shrine, Where Hope sits brooding like a beauteous dove, Where life seems young and like a thing divine. All tastes, all pleasures, all desires combine, To consecrate this sanctuary of bliss. Above, the stars in cloudless beauty shine. Around, the streams their flowery margins kiss, And if there’s Heaven on earth--that Heaven is surely this!’” Carl Conway is really a very fair actor, and his voice is both musical and _entrainante_, and he spouts these lines with a wonderful passion and softness that appeal to all the women present, and as he speaks them, ever and anon his handsome brown eyes rest a second on the stage-box where poor little Zai sits well back in her corner. Her eyes fixed on the beloved face, she forgets the existence of anyone else, her cheeks are flushed with excitement, her heart throbs fast, and a suspicion of a tear shines on her long lashes. Not a word does she utter, not a word does she hear; engrossed in this, the first love of her life, the play itself goes on without her taking in the gist of it. All she sees is Carl--Carl, with his superb face, and with his eyes full of the old, old passion as they linger on her and seem loth to turn away.