“Sir, I don’t know!” cries Diana eagerly.— “But sure it can’t be possible. I know her to be jealous of my success, but that’s a poor reason for murdering a woman, and she has no other.” “Has she not?” he said, looking gravely down upon her. “You walk in the midst of perils and see them not. Mrs. Bishop has a reason far deeper than the one you name, and though I can’t tell, I imagine this is why Mr. Rich hath dismist her. Be open with me, Mrs. Fenton. I am your friend.” “I know it—don’t I rejoice in it? But I know nothing more. I think—I believe the wine was tampered with, but am not certain and may do her a fearful injustice. Mr. Rich tells me she left on a better proposal. And I know of no reason whatever for her hate.” There was a long hush, Bolton debating within himself whether he should or should not enlighten her ignorance. Would she walk the safer for the knowledge? At last, with a sigh, he broke the silence. “Mrs. Beswick, I would you were done with the playhouse. You have won your laurels—I would you could rest on them. ’Tis no place for you. Do you love it very dearly?” “I hate it!” she cries, with tears. “But what shall I do? ’Tis my living, and not only so but ’tis as natural to me to sing as to speak.— And further, her Grace and Mr. Gay talk of nothing but the new ‘Polly’ and my part in it, and how could I forsake them?” “Will you permit a word of counsel from one who is your friend?” “O most willingly and gratefully. I have none to counsel me in all the wide world. I have not a relation but my mother and she not in London now.” “Then, Mrs. Beswick, it can’t but be that you have many offers of marriage. I hear of hearts by the dozen at your feet. I counsel you to take some good man for a husband and leave the stage for those who have a very different inclination from yours.” It stung her unbearably—somehow ’twas the last thing she expected. He was now pacing up and down, as if restless and disturbed, and as he came near her again in his turn, she commanded her voice sufficiently to answer: “Sir, shall I tell you how many offers of marriage I have had? Not one. The other offers are beyond reckoning, but of these I need not speak. What then shall I do?” He stood still, looking upon her in a kind of amaze. “What—so much beauty and sweetness of mind and body, and not one to claim it for his own? My God, what are we men come to! Is’t credible!” “It is true. I might marry a man below me possibly,—but I was born a gentlewoman. The men above me, or my equals, will not marry me.” He took a few more turns, looking down. Then turned again. “Child, I can’t express the pity and interest I feel in you. ’Tis beyond words. You know me a friend. May I act as one?” “If in any way possible to me I thank your Grace with a full heart.”