As for Polly herself she was inundated with love letters, some written seriously, others purely out of admiration. Offers of marriage came both personally and through the post. The world of gallants was at her feet. She laughed at most of her would-be lovers and listened to none. The good natured Duke of Bolton approached her constantly and was never tired of going to the opera. Seated as he was on the stage it was easy enough for him to express his adoration. He was also ever ready with presents which he proffered with so respectful an air that she could hardly refuse them. But what did the duke mean? Had he not a duchess already? True, he was not on the best of terms with her. He had been forced into marriage by his father and he and his wife had been separated some six years. But this made no difference. The duchess was still in the world. Polly--henceforth she dropped the Lavinia--heard what his grace had to say but gave him no encouragement beyond smiling bewitchingly now and again. She did not dislike him, but she did not care for him. Lancelot Vane was still the hero of her romance and that romance would never die. Sometimes she amused herself and Lancelot too by telling him of the offers of marriage she had received and how she had refused them, but she never mentioned the Duke of Bolton. One night--it was the twenty-second performance of the opera--Lancelot Vane was in his accustomed place at the end of the second row in the pit. There was a vacant seat on the other side of his, and half way through the third act a late comer was heard growling and without saying by your leave or with your leave attempted to force himself past Vane into the empty seat. Lance looked up angry at the rudeness of the fellow. He started. He recognised Jeremy Rofflash-Rofflash very much the worse for the drink, very much the worse in every way since Vane had last set eyes upon him. Things had gone very badly with the swashbuckler. Archibald Dorrimore, his old patron, was dead, killed by dicing, drinking and other vices. Rofflash had had to take to the "road" more than ever and he'd had very bad luck. A bullet from a coach passenger's pistol had struck his knee and he now limped. He was nearly always drunk and when drunk all his old hatreds were uppermost. Directly he saw Vane, his bleary eyes glistened and his lips tightened over his uneven teeth and the ugly gaps between. "Devil take me, if it isn't the cockerel whose feathers I've sworn to pluck. Come to ogle the young trollop on the stage, I'll swear. If I know anything about the hussy, she'll turn you down for the first spark who flings a handful of guineas in her lap." Jeremy's gruff rasping tones were heard all over the house. Polly and Lucy were singing their duet "Would I might be hanged," and both cast indignant looks at the side of the pit whence the interruption came. But they could only hear, not see, so dimly was the theatre lighted. Meanwhile Vane had sprung to his feet.