Supper was a weakness with Miss Montressor. When she was acting she didn't care particularly about dinner, invariably refused all invitations to that meal, and ate sparingly at a comparatively early hour; but supper had always been her favourite amusement. In the early days of her stage apprenticeship, long before her Christian name was Clara or her surname Montressor, when she was a struggling, raw-boned, weak-eyed girl, playing chambermaids and general utility in a provincial theatre, with a salary of eighteen shillings a week, she used to devote a portion of that modest sum to the purchase of pigs' pettitoes and polonies, on which, with a pint of very flat porter, she used to regale herself in her wretched garret after her return from the theatre. After she had established herself, and made a success in later life, she kept up the same practice, the Brompton villa being substituted for the garret, boned turkeys, _pâté de foie gras_, and cold game for the delicacies above mentioned, and the society of pleasant Bohemians for the cruel solitude. So Miss Montressor intimated to Bryan Duval her acceptance of his invitation, and made all possible haste to get ready for the scene of action. As soon as she was dressed she joined Mr. Duval and Mrs. Regan, and the three drove off in a carriage together. Miss Montressor thought there was an air of comfort as she stepped across the little garden and entered the bright cheery hall at Delmonico's, with its bureau immediately fronting the street, its glimpse of well-dressed men and women, attentive waiters, steaming dishes, and silver-necked flasks lolling out of ice-pails, in the large room on the left, and its broad staircase, up and down which the nimble attendants were flitting. But when she found herself on the first floor, in the room furnished with extravagant richness, but in perfect French taste, and looked through the open folding-doors into another room, where the round table for a dozen convives was already spread, and shimmering with its accumulation of plate and glass, she could not resist clapping and giving a little scream of delight. 'Welcome to the star of the evening,' cried Mr. Van Buren, his hair poodled up into a magnificent curling crop, his moustache lacquered and pointed in the latest fashion, advancing to do homage. 'I have to thank you, my dear young lady, for your performance to-night.' 'If you were pleased,' said Miss Montressor, with a sweet smile, which went straight to the heart of the inflammable manager, 'I have every reason to be satisfied.' 'Pleased!' cried he. 'I not merely look upon the success as certain, but I regard this as the first of a series of visits which you shall pay to this country, and by which I shall be enabled to help you to realise a fortune; and there is something selfish in the thought,' he added, 'for it will not merely give me the assurance of seeing you constantly, but enable me to support your absence with the certain idea of your return.'