He had struggled fruitlessly against the overpowering desire to see Lady Lucy again; everything indeed had seemed to point out the folly of his enterprise; the prejudices of a lifetime, the oft-repeated axioms of those whom he had loved and lost, his own diffidence, the absolute hopelessness of his passion, but none of these considerations had been strong enough to outweigh the memory of the girl’s tantalising words: “Did you chance to be at Sadler’s Wells Playhouse on this day se’en-night you would see me there!” And then again, “You remember the adage, ‘Faint heart’—.” Surely no one could say that John Cotley’s heart was faint this evening; on the contrary, it beat so loud and strong that he wondered his neighbours did not turn to look at him. When he entered the building and took his seat the whole place seemed to swim round him, and the play-bill fluttered in his hand. But by-and-by he began to regain his self-possession; the lights which had danced before his gaze settled steadily in their places, and he took courage to rise and cast a searching glance round the house; but strain his eyes as he might he could not discover Lady Lucy. The house, indeed, seemed packed from pit to topmost gallery, but amidst all the rows and rows of faces hers was missing. After concluding his futile search for the twentieth time he sat down disconsolately, and, to hide his confusion on perceiving the amused and curious stare of his neighbours, he fell to examining his play-bill. At first the words floated meaninglessly before his eyes, but by-and-by one of them took shape and assumed, indeed, an odd familiarity. “_Lord Tuftington_”—_Lord Tuftington_! Why, surely that was the name of one of the invaders of Cotley Grange on that never-to-be-forgotten evening. Lord Tuftington! How did his name come to be there? But stop! Here was another that he knew, “_Sir Harry Highflyer_.” And here again, “_The Duchess of Flummery_,” and again, “_Lady Olivia Pouncebox_,” and here—here actually was the name of all others sacred to him, “_Lady Lucy Mayflower_!” _Lady Lucy_! He sat staring at the paper for a moment, and then, scarce knowing what he did, turned to one of his neighbours— “Pray, sir, is it not a strange thing for such a noble company to give a performance in a public place?” The man stared, and laughed. “Sir, I fail to understand you. Where, in heaven’s name, would you have them perform if not in a public place? How else should we see them play?” “’Tis for charity, no doubt,” cried John, scarcely heeding him, and speaking in a white heat of passionate indignation. “But to me it seems degrading that they should thus expose themselves, so that all who pay a certain price are free to gape at them.” The man gazed at him blankly for a moment, and then burst out laughing.