Miss Pamela Pounce was in the act of tying on her own hat, in the upper room, preparatory to departure after the day’s work, when a breathless junior summoned her. “There’s a young lady below as wants to see you, Miss Pounce, and, la! I think ’tis Miss Falcon!” Now, Felicity Falcon had recently flashed out upon the London stage with a startling and unexpected splendour that was more like that of a comet than of a star; Miss Farren, Mrs. Siddons, Mrs. Jordan, were for the moment as idols overthrown. The cry was all for Falcon. Her name was on every man’s lips. She was the first excitement of the season; and not the opera, not an oratorio, not a concert, not a rout at Almack’s, nor a display at Ranelagh, could be said to offer attraction in comparison to the playhouse which announced the fair Falcon in the night’s performance. On hearing this remarkable name, Pamela paused, her hand on the black velvet string which fastened her simple Dunstable straw under her round, white chin. A play-actress! Many a young person of that profession had Miss Pounce with dignity shown forth already from the doors of this select establishment: “Much regretting, Madame, that there is nothing likely to suit you here.” Heavens, if a Mirabel hat were to be recognised on the boards! But Felicity Falcon? It was only last week that Pamela had wept and trembled, and sucked in breaths of excitement over her “Mrs. Haller.” Never had she beheld anything more affecting, more impassioned, soul-stirring, and elegant than that impersonation. To provide Miss Falcon with a hat in which she would enthral and ravish all London! It was too splendid an opportunity for such an artistic soul as that of Pamela to resist. After hours, too, and the shutters putting up, and no fear of awkward rencounters. And if some of her ladies did find it out, why, foh! for one that would be offended, forty would order a hat to the same model. Pamela flung the Dunstable straw off her chestnut head, and turning with great dignity, “Inform Miss Falcon,” said she, “that I will attend her presently.” After a due delay, which she spent in drumming with white fingers on the dressing-table, her eyes lost beyond her own reflection, in a far vision of millinery genius, Madame Mirabel’s partner appeared in the empty shop; sedate, her eyebrows well elevated into her white forehead, her hands folded on her trim waistband. The slender figure in the brown silk cloak turned quickly with a rustle and flutter. “You was wishful to speak with me, Madam?” questioned Miss Pounce, in her finest business manner. “I want a hat for to-night, for Lady Teazle--for the third act, for the screen scene. Oh, I want something----” Miss Pounce raised her hand. “One moment, Madam.” She gazed at the narrow, pale face, unrouged; the dark, ardent eyes. “’Tis the most mortal-genteel creature I have ever seen,” thought Pamela.