“I would see with my own eyes how Miss Polly does,” says she. “I was full of regrets to hear of so unfortunate an accident and was it not that the apothecary enjoined quiet, I had gone yesterday to enquire in person for Mrs. Diana. But my woman and your own obliging message reassured me.” “I thank your Grace,” says Diana with the tears of weakness welling to her eyes, “and am your bounden servant to my life’s end in gratitude for this and all your other immeasurable favours. If I could think I should live to testify it better than in words——” “My dear, you repay me double in the satisfaction and pleasure you have bestowed on my good Mr. Gay and myself, and the delight your charming air must carry wherever ’tis known. This evening I receive company in the gold and white drawing-room and must leave you, but before I go would ask privately between you and me—have you any suspicions that there was any foul play with you that you dropt so sudden after drinking the wine from Lucy’s hand?” “Madam, to you I can tell my heart. I know not—how should I—but indeed that woman terrifies me beyond measure, though I can’t believe that a mere stage jealousy could carry her to so fearful a length, and other grudge against me she has none.” “How know you that?” cries the Duchess with one of her bright rapid flashes. “Let me tell you, Mrs. Di, that I know better, and though I may not be more particular (for reasons) I entreat you to avoid all men at the playhouse, and keep yourself very secluded there. I had a word with Mr. Rich to that effect, and can assure you he thinks as I do. There’s a better fate for you, Mrs. Di, than to be a playhouse trull, and since you are none by nature, close every approach that may make you one by force or persuasion.” Diana all but slid from her chair on her knees before the radiant figure that towered over her in so majestic a height. “Madam—Your Grace, my heart beats responsive to every one of your words. I’m beset and persecuted at the playhouse, though not so much of late. And Mr. Rich himself is all goodness, but what can he do? Sure the place swarms with bold young men—so audacious as your Grace can scarce believe. Indeed, when the run of the piece is over I would give all but my life to retire from the stage and play no more. I hate the playhouse.” Now this did not suit the Duchess neither, for ’tis to be remembered, she desired the girl for the Polly of Mr. Gay’s succeeding piece. She might not have said so much had she known the bitterness in her heart. She pulled a chair for herself. “Mrs. Di, you make me bold to ask—Have you any other living than the stage?” “None, Madam. So I see not how to leave it, yet loathe my living. And yet—the stage itself—the joy and delight to sing, to act—to attract kind looks and sunshiny smiles—how beautiful, were it not for the bad men and women that make it a torment!”