She clasped her hands and looked at him in a kind of ravishment. “And is it really true? Sir, what shall I say to you? O, I will play as you never saw woman play yet—no, not even the great Mrs. Oldfield. You see me now but in hood and cloak, but when dressed to advantage, my hair curled and frizzed about my face in the mode, I trust you will admit my person not negligible. Indeed I won’t disappoint you and to the last day of my life I will murmur to myself— ‘’Tis to Mr. Rich I owe all I have and am!’ “’Tisn’t, my dear!” says he, surprised into candour. “’Tis to an uncommonly lavish nature you owe it and not to an curmudgeon like me. But I’ll be a true friend to you so long as you deserve it. Perhaps longer, if I look into your eyes. But a word on that. My own orbs are spectacled with good sense and a fine woman doesn’t strike the youthful fire out of them as once she did. Come—in your ear. Other and younger eyes will kindle at yours.— Are you an honest girl, child? or is there any gentleman behind you to put you forward and live on your earnings?” Instead of flushing and anger, she laughed the clearest laughter in the world. “Gentleman, Lord bless you, Sir—what have I to do with gentlemen? ’Tis to get away from one, I’m here. My stepfather. And as to gentlemen, I’ll have none of them,—let them stick to the audience, and I’ll stick to the boards. I want but one lover, Sir—the public. That’s the heart I would win and for any other I have no use. And as to matrimony—what! to bear the uneasiness of a man’s temper and the fret of babies and the bearing them, and the dull life of a wife whether she be a slut or a lady of quality! No, Sir, indeed I am all yours and my profession’s.” She was but a girl. Relieved of anxiety this showed most charmingly and touched a paternal vein in Rich neither he nor any other knew he possessed. He sighed a little looking at that fresh sparkling beauty—all cream and roses, and the sweetness of a May hawthorn. “Why, child, you speak brave, but you’re not to learn there are dangers here—men——” “I give but a snap of my fingers for them, be they who they will!” she cried, and snapt her fingers to suit the words. “I’ll take care of myself, Sir, and if I can’t, I’ll ask you for your protection.” “I will be at your service,” he said, somewhat more grave than his wont. “Your age, Mrs. Diana?” “Eighteen, Sir, last June. My mother is Mrs. Fenton, wife of the gentleman who keeps the Savannah Coffee House in Charing Cross. My father was Mr. Beswick, a lieutenant in his Majesty’s navy. He is dead three years. And for his sake, Sir, I entreat you give not my real name to any concerned till I shall decide by what name I would be known. It shall not be my own, for reasons.” Mr. Rich assenting, noted all particulars in his pocket book, then took up her cloak and put it about her, drawing the hood over her face.