“Pretty well--er!” replied Lord George, passing his hand through his hair. “Very nice girl--er!--good ankles. Devilish hot--er, is it not--er--er? What a bore this is: eh! Ah! Godolphin! don’t forget Wattier’s--er!” and his lordship er’d himself off. “What actress is this?” “Oh, a very good one indeed!--came out in _The Belle’s Stratagem_. We are going to see her to-morrow; will you dine with us early, and be our cavalier?” “Nothing will please me more! Your ladyship has dropped your handkerchief.” “Thank you!” said the lady, bending till her hair touched Godolphin’s cheek, and gently pressing the hand that was extended to her. It was a wonder that Godolphin never became a coxcomb. He dined at Wattier’s the next day according to appointment: he went to the play; and at the moment his eye first turned to the stage, a universal burst of applause indicated the entrance of the new actress--Fanny Millinger! CHAPTER VIII. GODOLPHIN’S PASSION FOR THE STAGE.--THE DIFFERENCE IT ENGENDERED IN HIS HABITS OF LIFE. Now this event produced a great influence over Godolphin’s habits--and I suppose, therefore, I may add, over his character. He renewed his acquaintance with the lively actress. “What a change!” cried both. “The strolling player risen into celebrity!” “And the runaway boy polished into fashion!” “You are handsomer than ever, Fanny.” “I return the compliment,” replied Fanny; with a curtsey. And now Godolphin became a constant attendant at the theatre. This led him into a mode of life quite different from that which he had lately cultivated. There are in London two sets of idle men: one set, the butterflies of balls; the loungers of the regular walks of society; diners out; the “old familiar faces,” seen everywhere, known to every one: the other set, a more wild, irregular, careless race; who go little into parties, and vote balls a nuisance; who live in clubs; frequent theatres; drive about late o’ nights in mysterious-looking vehicles and enjoy a vast acquaintance among the Aspasias of pleasure. These are the men who are the critics of theatricals: black-neckclothed and well-booted, they sit in their boxes and decide on the ankles of a dancer or the voice of a singer. They have a smattering of literature, and use a great deal of French in their conversation: they have something of romance in their composition, and have been known to marry for love. In short, there is in their whole nature, a more roving, liberal, Continental character of dissipation, than belongs to the cold, tame, dull, prim, hedge-clipped indolence of more national exquisitism. Into this set, out of the other set, fell young Godolphin; and oh! the merry mornings at actresses’ houses; the jovial suppers after the play; the buoyancy, the brilliancy, the esprit, with which the hours, from midnight to cockcrow, were often pelted with rose-leaves and drowned in Rhenish.