“Oh, my Lord, she is incomparable!” “I do assure you, Miss Falcon, when the screen was knocked down and you stood forth I could have fallen on my knees before you!” “’Pon honour! ’Pon honour, never was acting half so fine!” The flush was fading, and the fire dying in her gaze as she turned round upon them. “Pray, gentlemen, you are very kind, but I have to change my gown for the next act. My Lord, bid your friends leave me. And you too, my Lord.” As bowing, kissing hands, grimacing, jostling against each other, the little knot of gossips withdrew, obedient once more to their patron’s wave, he himself lingered. “Felicity,” he said, “there never was anyone like you. My dear, you brought the tears to my eyes.” When he released her hand there was a new ring upon it. The donor hurried forth, as if, with the finest tact, to forego gratitude in connection with a trifle, or so Miss Pounce understood his magnificent mien. Felicity gazed at the object on her hand, gave a laugh which rang scornful, dropped the jewel from her on the dressing-table, and sat down before the mirror. “Now,” said she to Pamela, “take off the hat yourself, if you will. My dresser hath so gross a touch. The hat, you know, it has made me to-night. I owe you a vast debt of gratitude. Oh, those black feathers! Your excellent taste, child, gave the note, I do assure you, to my whole rendering. The tragedy, you know, and the innocence, and the remorse.” It seemed to Pamela as if she were mocking herself as she gazed upon her own countenance. She broke off. There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” she cried. And, as a young gentleman in mourning, with a pale face, appeared in the aperture, she went on in an unchanged voice: “How would it be, Miss Pounce, if I were to run a blue ribbon among these curls? ’Twould not come amiss, I think, in the last act, to mark the girlishness of Lady Teazle beside so old a husband. Now, my Lord, pray be quick about your business. I have scarce five minutes to give you! Yes, a blue ribbon, I think. You have such charming fingers, my dear, pray pass it in yourself. Go on, my Lord, I can see you very well in the glass, and sure, besides, I did not promise to look at you, so long as I listen.” “You mean to torture me,” said the young man in a low voice. Had he been on the rack, Pamela thought, glancing compassionately at his reflection, as her hands moved delicately in the actress’s tresses, he could scarce have had a greater air of suffering. “Pho!” cried Miss Falcon. (“Is not that a trifle too forward, Miss Pounce?”) “Pray, my Lord, remember, this interview is none of my seeking.” “I asked to speak with you alone.” “Ah, but I did not promise you that! Say out, or keep silence, it matters nothing to me.” “I begin to believe what I have heard,” he exclaimed hoarsely. Her eye flashed lightning at his image in the glass. “Indeed, my Lord? And that again leaves me indifferent.”