Before a savoury stew smelling strongly of onions sat a man very much at his ease, without coat or neckcloth,--a decidedly handsome man, his hair cut short and his face closely shaven, as befits an actor who has wigs and beards of all hues and forms at his command. The man was not alone; opposite to him sat a lady, who might be a few years younger, of a somewhat faded complexion, but still pretty, with good stage features and a profusion of blond ringlets. "Mr. Compton, I presume," said Kenelm, with a solemn bow. "My name is Compton: any message from the theatre? or what do you want with me?" "I--nothing!" replied Kenelm; and then deepening his naturally mournful voice into tones ominous and tragic, continued, "By whom you are wanted let this explain;" therewith he placed in Mr. Compton's hand the letter with which he was charged, and stretching his arms and interlacing his fingers in the /pose/ of Talma as Julius Caesar, added, "'Qu'en dis-tu, Brute?'" Whether it was from the sombre aspect and awe-inspiring delivery of the messenger, or the sight of the handwriting on the address of the missive, Mr. Compton's countenance suddenly fell, and his hand rested irresolute, as if not daring to open the letter. "Never mind me, dear," said the lady with blond ringlets, in a tone of stinging affability: "read your /billet-doux/; don't keep the young man waiting, love!" "Nonsense, Matilda, nonsense! /billet-doux/ indeed! more likely a bill from Duke the tailor. Excuse me for a moment, my dear. Follow me, sir," and rising, still with shirtsleeves uncovered, he quitted the room, closing the door after him, motioned Kenelm into a small parlour on the opposite side of the passage, and by the light of a suspended gas-lamp ran his eye hastily over the letter, which, though it seemed very short, drew from him sundry exclamations. "Good heavens, how very absurd! what's to be done?" Then, thrusting the letter into his trousers-pocket, he fixed upon Kenelm a very brilliant pair of dark eyes, which soon dropped before the steadfast look of that saturnine adventurer. "Are you in the confidence of the writer of this letter?" asked Mr. Compton, rather confusedly. "I am not the confidant of the writer," answered Kenelm, "but for the time being I am the protector!" "Protector!" "Protector." Mr. Compton again eyed the messenger, and this time fully realizing the gladiatorial development of that dark stranger's physical form, he grew many shades paler, and involuntarily retreated towards the bell-pull. After a short pause, he said, "I am requested to call on the writer. If I do so, may I understand that the interview will be strictly private?" "So far as I am concerned, yes: on the condition that no attempt be made to withdraw the writer from the house." "Certainly not, certainly not; quite the contrary," exclaimed Mr. Compton, with genuine animation. "Say I will call in half an hour."