The play, which at the time of its production enjoyed an ephemeral popularity, but has since passed into oblivion like its author, abounded in strained situations. The sentiment was superabundant, the humour forced and occasionally verging upon coarseness, but Lady Lucy, who sustained one of the principal parts, won tumultuous applause from first to last. John saw her smiling upon her fictitious lover as she had smiled upon him, he heard her voice, her light laugh, he marked certain little tricks of manner, which, though he had known her for so brief a space, seemed engraven upon his memory—and his jealous heart seemed like to burst within him. He felt ashamed, nay, personally degraded by the publicity into which she had thrust herself. Good God! That her beauty, her charm, her pretty ways should be thus pilloried! That any coarse brute who sate aloft in the gallery was free to make his comment because he had paid his sixpence! That nothing should be sacred; that she should prattle of love, and weep mock tears, there in the glare of the footlights before all these curious, insolent eyes, as though he and she had never clasped hands and stammered secrets in the sanctity of the solitary dawn. Oh! Heavens, it was too much! The intensity of his gaze drew hers towards him before she had been very long upon the scene, and she appeared to falter for a moment, but speedily recovered her self-possession. At the end of the first act, while he was still staring blankly at the lowered curtain, someone touched him on the shoulder, and, as he turned round, thrust a note into his hand. He tore it open quickly, and found it contained but a line:—“Come to the stage door when the play is over.” Turning to speak to the messenger, he found that he had already gone. When Lady Lucy next came on the stage she played with even greater spirit and vivacity than before, but by-and-by stole a questioning glance at John; and John gravely nodded. A thousand times, indeed, he had a mind to leave the place and to set eyes on her no more; and still he lingered. With each succeeding act Miss Fitzroy further captivated the house, and the curtain descended at last amid tumultuous applause. Slowly and gloomily John rose, and after many enquiries found his way to the stage door, standing there motionless while streams of gay folk passed and repassed before his eyes. All at once he felt a hand upon his arm. A slender, cloaked figure was beside him, and two bright eyes were gazing at him eagerly from the depths of a quilted silk hood. “John,” whispered Lady Lucy’s voice, “here I am, John. I have given them all the slip that I might talk to you for a moment. You must know that I have had quite an ovation—they say that my fortune is made and that all London will be ringing with my name to-morrow; and now tell me, what did you think of it—how did you like me?” “What did I think of it?” groaned John. “My dear, it nearly broke my heart!”