used to her present position; but there was nothing wrong in that. Nevertheless Frederick felt that there was something to pay for the strange confusion of blessedness in which he seemed to have lost himself. He felt this by intervals, and he kept as much as he could behind the curtains, behind _her_. She was perfectly willing to occupy the centre of the box, to rain down influence, to be seen and admired. “Mr. Eastwood, I wish you would not keep behind me. Do let people see that I have some one to take care of me. Papa has gone to sleep, of course,” said the beauty, and she turned round upon Frederick with such a look that he remembered nothing any more but her loveliness, and the delight of being near her. She chattered through all the play, and he listened. She said a great deal that was silly, and some things that were slightly vulgar, and he noted them, yet was not less subjugated by a spell which was beyond resistance. I cannot be supposed to understand this, nor to explain it. In such matters I can only record facts. He was not under the delusion that she was a lofty, or noble, or refined being, though she was Batty’s daughter. He presumed that she was Batty’s daughter heart and soul; made of the same _pâte_, full of the same thoughts. She was “not a lady,” beautiful, splendid, and well-dressed as she was; the humble, little snub-nosed girl in the stalls below who looked up at this vision of loveliness with a girl’s admiration had something which all the wealth of the Indies could not have given to Miss Amanda. And Frederick Eastwood saw this quite plainly, yet fell in love, or in madness, exactly as if he had not seen it. The feeling, such as it was, was too genuine to make him capable of many words; but he did his best to amuse her, and he listened to all she said, which was a very good way of pleasing this young woman. “I hope you mean to stay in town for some time,” he said, in one of the pauses of her abundant talk. “Not very long,” said Miss ’Manda. “Papa likes to live well, and to do things in the best sort of way; so he spends a deal of money, and that can’t last long. Our hotel isn’t like Mivart’s, and that sort of thing: but it is dreadfully dear. We spend as much as--oh, I couldn’t venture to tell you how much we spend a day. Papa likes to have everything of the best, and so do I.” “And so you ought,” said Frederick, adoring. “Pardon me if I am saying too much.” “Oh, you are not saying very much, Mr. Eastwood. It is I that am talking,” said Amanda, “and as for our staying long here, that does not much matter, for papa wants you to come to Sterborne. He has been talking of it ever since he came back from Paris. What did you do to him to make him take such a fancy to you? We don’t think the other Eastwoods behaved vary nicely to us, and ever since he met with you papa has been telling me of all your good qualities. You have put a spell upon him, I think.”