"That was only some of Mr. Murphy’s nonsense. Oh, I declare to you, no one knows what I have suffered. The other evening, when he and I got into a cab, he glared at the man who opened the door for us. And the fuss he makes about cosmetique and bismuth is something dreadful." "He must be a monster." There now ensued a little fragment of thorough comedy. For a moment the elderly young lady, who had been assuming throughout the tone of a spoiled child, stood irresolute. There was a petulance on her face, and she had half a mind to go away in high dudgeon from one who was evidently laughing at her. Then through this petulance there broke a sort of knowing smile, while a glimmer of mischievous intelligence appeared in her eyes; and then, with an unaffected comical giggle, she once more threw her arms round Annie Brunel’s neck and kissed her. "I’m very wicked, I know," she said, with a shrug of the shoulders, "but I can’t help it. What’s bred in the bone, you know. And it’s all the men’s fault, for they keep teasing one so. As for _him_, if he writes to me, and makes an apology, and promises to be a good boy, I’ll make friends with him. And I’ll be very good myself—for a week." It was with a cold inward shiver that Annie Brunel stepped out upon the stage and looked round the empty theatre. She tried to imagine it full of people, and yellow light, and stir, and she knew within herself she dared not venture before them. Even without that solitary pair of eyes watching her movements, and without the consciousness that she might be producing a strong impression, for good or evil, on one particular person whose estimation she desired, she trembled to think of the full house, and the rows of faces, and her own individual weakness. "What do you think of the decorations, Miss Brunel?" said Mr. Melton, coming up. "They are very pretty," she said, mechanically. "With your ’Rosalind,’ the theatre should draw all London to it." "It is ’Rosalind’ you mean to play?" she asked, scarcely knowing what she said. "Certainly," replied the manager, with astonishment. "Don’t you remember our agreement? If you turn round, you will see the new forest-scene Mr. Gannet has painted; perhaps it may remind you of something in the Black Forest." For a moment or two she glanced over the great breadth of canvas, covered with gnarled oaks, impossible brushwood, and a broad, smooth stream. With a short "No, it is not like the Black Forest," she turned away again. "Miss Featherstone will play ’Celia;’ and you know there is not a ’Touchstone’ in the world to come near Bromley’s. Mrs. Wilkes refuses to play ’Audrey,’ luckily, and Miss Alford will play it a deal better. I have had several rehearsals, everybody is declared letter-perfect; and we only you to put the keystone to the arch, as one might say." She turned quickly round and said to him—