Nor was Hugh’s first “little sin” fated to prove an exception to the rule. Of course he was obliged to confess to Norman that he had not told his brother, and of course Norman replied that what he had done once he could do again: and that if he cared to go to the play, he must not tell Percy or any one; and Hugh, not having a word to say in denial, the discussion ended by his promising to preserve a strict silence on the subject, and to come to Norman in Biggington’s room. In that same apartment was assembled, that afternoon, a solemn conclave. Biggington took _the_ chair (there was but one); Stradwick drew a box from under the bed, and seated himself upon it, in an attitude exactly copied from that of Biggington. Norman, resting his elbow on the chimney-piece, remained standing; while Terry turned a wash-hand basin topsy-turvy, and perched himself, monkey-like, on the apex of the semi-cone thus created. After a moment’s silence, Biggington exclaimed--“Well, Norman, how are we going on? have you brought your plan to perfection yet?” “Unforeseen difficulties have sprung up,” was the reply, “but none which the three Ps--patience, perseverance, and pluck--will not carry us through.” “Difficulties be hanged!” rejoined Biggington, impetuously. “I tell you one thing, go _I will_, by fair means or foul; the fact is, Trevanion” (“Jack Spratty,” murmured Norman. “With a great pair of dyed moustachios on him,” urged Terry) “has been here, and promised to take us behind the scenes, and to come and sup with us at the Bull afterwards, and induce Coralie and the other girl to come too.” “Ay! and Coralie’s a stunner, and no mistake,” observed Terry; “such a pair of black eyes, by Jove! they go through a fellow like--like----” “Bradawls,” suggested Stradwick, complacently. “A _pointed_ illustration, decidedly,” resumed Terry; “but I was walking the day before yesterday with old Beaugentil, when we met this said Coralie, taking a constitutional for the benefit of her complexion; the moment Beaugentil set eyes upon her, he went off into an ecstacy, throwing up his arms and capering about like a bear on hot bricks. ‘_Mais, ce n’est pas possible!_’ he exclaimed, ‘vot shall I be ’old? _Est-ce toi, Coralie?_ Am it thou, Coreliar, zie daugtaire of thy mama, zie beloafed _de ma premiere jeunesse! et quelle ange!_ vot an angle! _vrai ange du ciel_, a right angle of ’eaven! _Voyez donc, Monsieur Terrie; permettez que je vous présente mon cher élève, Monsieur Terrie, june homme charmant; mais n’est-ce pas que Mademoiselle est jolie_; ees not Mees superbe, beautifu, _magnifique_, pretty vell!’ and so the old boy ran on till I was in fits.” “What is your confounded difficulty, Norman?” inquired Biggington, abruptly. “Why, the window in the loft turns out to be too small for anything bigger than a boy to get through,” was the reply.