“It’s a long time since I’ve been at a place like this,” Delaval says, “but I suppose I must try and do some of the Parisian things, unless I want to be taken for a regular savage.” “Things are rather changed since you were here, eh,” Silverlake asks. “Well, yes. It’s incredible how a year or so changes all the people and places in Paris. I have scarcely seen one of the faces that used to be familiar in the Bois two winters ago.” “Paris isn’t as bad as London for change,” Silverlake remarks. “In town there’s a lot of cads who suddenly appear--no one knows whence--make a great flare up with carriages, horses, opera boxes, powdered footmen, and as suddenly disappear, goodness knows where, and sink into utter oblivion. Cads who speculate, you know, make fortunes by some species of swindling, and then lose them again.” “People who are not cads manage to get through their money pretty well,” drawls Shropshire. At which Delaval laughs. “Does it hit home, Silverlake?” “Well, it’s a consolation he and I are in the same coach!” And then the three men enter a box, the next but one to the stage. The Alcazar is crowded to suffocation, there is no moving in the body of the house, where they sit at the little tables smoking and drinking, and as Delaval looks round, he says-- “What on earth do the people flock here for like this?” “For Marguerite Ange. Her singing has made this place an unheard of success, you know.” “Marguerite Ange! I haven’t even heard of her!” “Don’t say so, my dear fellow, unless you want to argue yourself unknown! Hi!” This last ejaculation is to a pretty coquettish little Marchande des Fleurs, and Shropshire invests in a bouquet of Parma violets, as big as his own head. “What a monster posy, who’s that for?” asks Delaval. “I pity its recipient, it will almost crush her I should think.” “It’s for Mademoiselle Ange, of course,” Silverlake joins in, searching in his pocket for a five-franc piece to buy a bunch of camellias, but without success, “everyone throws the Ange a bouquet, it’s _la mode_.” “Wonder she isn’t like the fellow, you remember? the Roman fellow, who was smothered by a shower of cloaks,” Delaval says, with a feeble reminiscence of some old story learnt long ago in his cramming days. “Eh, what?” Silverlake asks, “No! don’t know any Roman fellows, know plenty of Jews, I am sorry to say.” “There’s an awful Jew fellow in that stage-box opposite,” whispers Shropshire, “fingers blazing with diamonds, and all that sort of thing. He’s after the Ange, comes here every night and ogles her. I wouldn’t touch him for all the world.” “I shouldn’t mind touching his shekels of gold. I----” But Silverlake stops short, for just at this moment the shouts and thunder of applause, the cries and calls for “Marguerite” grow terrific, and Delaval, raising his glass, curiously eyes a woman advancing slowly towards the footlights. It is Marguerite Ange, the woman who has turned the heads of all Paris.