"Well, that was implacable enough, to be sure; to have death dogging the poor wretch's heels, and yet refusing to strike." "For myself, I don't pity him much," said Lord Evelyn, as he rose and buttoned his coat. "He was a fool to think he could play such a trick and escape the consequences. Now, Brand, how am I to hear from you to-morrow? You know I am in a measure responsible." "However it ends, I am grateful to you, Evelyn; you may be sure of that. I will write to you from Wolverhampton, and let you know the worst, or the best." "The best, then: we will have no worsts." He said good-bye, and went whistling cheerfully down the narrow oak staircase. He at least was not very apprehensive about the results of the next day's interview. But how brief was this one day, with its rapidly passing opportunities; and then the stern necessity for departure and absence. He spent half the night in devising how best he could get speech of her, in a roundabout fashion, without the dread of the interference of friends. And at last he hit upon a plan which might not answer; but he could think of nothing else. He went in the morning and secured a box at Covent Garden for that evening. Then he called at Lisle Street, and got Calabressa's address. He found Calabressa in his lodgings, shivering and miserable, for the day was wet, misty, and cold. "You can escape from the gloom of our climate, Signor Calabressa," said he. "What do you say to going to the opera to-night?" "Your opera?" said he, with a gesture indicative of still deeper despair. "You forget I come from the home, the nursery of opera." "Yes," said Brand, good-naturedly. "Great singers train in your country, but they sing here: that is the difference. Do not be afraid; you will not be disappointed. See, I have brought you a box; and if you want companions, why not ask Miss Lind and Madame Potecki to go with you and show you the ways of our English opera-houses?" "Ah, the little Natalushka!" said Calabressa, eagerly. "Will she go? Do you think she will go? _Ma foi_, it is not often I have the chance of taking such a beautiful creature to the opera, if she will go! What must I do?" "You will have to go and beg her to be kind to you. Say you have the box--you need not mention how: ask if she will escort you, she and Madame Potecki. Say it is a kindness: she cannot help doing a kindness." "There you are right, monsieur: do not I see it in her eyes? can I not hear it in her voice?" "Well, that you must do at once, before she goes out for her walk at noon." "To go out walking on a day like this?" "She will go out, nevertheless; and you must go and intercept her, and pray her to do you this kindness." "_Apres?_" "You must come to me again, and we will get an English evening costume for you somehow. Then, two bouquets; I will get those for you, and send them to them to the box to await you." "But you yourself, monsieur; will you not be of the party?"