Mr. Desmond had been sitting in the shabby little lodging-house parlour a long time, when he stole a look at his watch, and was surprised to discover the lateness of the hour. “I should like to see you play Pauline to-night, Miss Alford,” he said, as he shook hands with his tutor’s daughter. Lucy blushed, and looked at her father. “The _Market Deeping Examiner_ compared her to Helen Faucit, Desmond, and I doubt if any lady except Miss Faucit could touch Lucy’s Pauline.” “Papa, how can you say such things!” cried the girl. “Please do not laugh at him, Mr. Desmond. I like the part of Pauline so much, and--and I should like you to be in the theatre to-night, only I know you will make me nervous.” “What! do you place me in the same category as Mrs. M’Grudder?” “O no, no, no! Only----” “Only what?” “I should be so anxious to please you; and the more I wished to please you, the more nervous I should be.” “I suppose that is the penalty I am to pay for my editorial position. Very well, Miss Alford, I shall not say whether I am coming to the theatre to-night; but look out for the _Areopagus_ next Saturday morning, and----” “And expect a washing,” cried the old tutor, rejoicing in the ’Varsity slang. “Good-bye, Miss Lucy,” said Laurence, lingering over these adieux just a little more than was necessary. “Oh, by the way, I have not had the pleasure of seeing your friend Miss St. Albans after all. Is she too a member of the dramatic profession?” Mr. Alford and his daughter laughed heartily at this question. “The girl has one requisite for comedy if she can laugh like that on the stage,” thought the editor. “I am Miss St. Albans,” said Lucy; “St. Albans is my stage name, you know. I really thought you understood that just now.” “Not at all; I fully believed in Miss St. Albans as a separate entity. And so that is your _nom de théâtre_!--rather a high-sounding name, is it not?” Mr. Alford blushed. “Well, my dear boy, they like fine names, you see,” he explained, “the managers and the public. In point of fact, they will have something that looks well in the play-bills. St. Albans--De Mortemar: of course the more enlightened public are aware that those are not real names; but they go down, my dear Desmond, they go down.” “I can only hope that the happiness of Miss Alford may be promoted by the success of Miss St. Albans,” said the editor of the _Areopagus_, as he made his farewell bow to the young lady in curl-papers. Mr. Alford accompanied him to the street-door, and apologized for his inability to invite his old pupil to dinner.