These conflicting motives, and the long train of anticipations connected with them, only served to render his present situation the more tragic. He knew that one great crisis of his life had come; and it is not only incomparable heroes, possessed of all human graces and virtues, who meet with such crises. "When do you propose to leave the stage?" he asked. "I have left," she answered. "You won’t play to-night?" "No." "But Mr. Melton——?" "Since he has been so kind as to give me, at your instigation, this release, must get Miss Featherstone to play ’Rosalind.’ Nelly will play it very nicely, and my best wishes will go with her." "Then I must see him instantly," said the Count, "and give him notice to get a handbill printed." "If you would be so kind——" But this was too bad. She intimated by her manner that she expected him to leave at once, merely for the sake of the wretched theatre. He took up the newspaper, by way of excuse, and for a minute or two glanced down its columns. "Have you any fixed plans about what you mean to do?" he asked. "None whatever," she replied. "Indeed I am in no hurry. You have no idea how I love this sense of freedom you have just given me, and I mean to enjoy it for a little time." "But after then?" She shrugged her shoulders, and smiled: he thought he had never seen her look so charming. "You don’t know what lies before you," he said, gravely, "if you think of battling single-handed against the crowds of London. You don’t know the thousands who are far more eager in the fight for bread than you are; because you haven’t experienced the necessity yet——" "I have fought for my bread ever since my poor mother died," she said. "With exceptional advantages, and these you now abandon. My dear Miss Brunel," he added, earnestly, "you don’t know what you’re doing. I shudder to think of the future that you seem to have chalked out for yourself. On the other hand, I see a probable future for you in which you would not have to depend upon any one for your support; you would be independent of those people whom you profess to dislike; you would be rich, happy, with plenty of amusement, nothing to trouble you, and you would also secure a pleasant home for Mrs. Christmas——" "Have you imagined all that out of one of these advertisements?" she asked, with a smile. "No, Miss Brunel," said the Count, whose earnestness gave him an eloquence which certainly did not often characterise his speech. "Can’t you guess what I mean? I am sure you know how I esteem you—you must have seen it—and perhaps you guessed what feelings lay behind that—and—and—now you are alone, as it were, you have no friends—why not accept my home, and become my wife?" "Your wife?" she repeated, suddenly becoming quite grave, and looking down.