“It’s really flying in the face of Providence, Ronnie, not to marry the Massarene heiress,” said Daddy Gwyllian, that evening, in the stalls at Covent Garden, letting fall his lorgnon, after a prolonged examination of the Massarene box. “I never knew that Providence kept a Bureau de Marriage,” replied Hurstmanceaux, “and I do not see what right you have to speak of that lady as if she were a filly without a bidder at Tattersall’s.” “Without a bidder! Lord, no! She refuses ’em, they say, fifty a week. But you know, Ronnie, you do fetch women uncommonly; look what scores of ’em have been in love with you.” “If they have, I am sure it has benefited them very little, and myself not at all,” replied Hurstmanceaux, very ungraciously. “She keeps a circular printed--a stamped form of refusal,” said Daddy Gwyllian with glee. “Sends ’em out in batches. Have a mind to propose to her myself, just for the fun of getting a circular.” “Your wit is as admirable as your invention is original,” said Hurstmanceaux, with much impatience, glancing, despite himself, at the box on the grand tier, where the classic profile and white shoulders of Katherine Massarene were visible beside the large, gorgeous, and much-jeweled person of her mother. Margaret Massarene disliked the opera-house. What she called the “noise” always reminded her of the braying of bands and the rattling of shots on a day of political excitement in Kerosene City. But she was not displeased to sit in that blaze of light with her di’monds on her ample bosom, and feel that she was as great a lady as any other there; and she was proud and pleased to see the number of high and mighty gentlemen who came to make their bow in her box, and with whom Katherine “talked music” in the most recondite and artistic fashion. “That’s the Duchess’s brother down there,” she whispered, as she turned her lorgnon on Hurstmanceaux. “It is,” replied Katherine. “Why don’t he come up here like the rest?” she asked. “He’s the best looking of them all.” “He has never left his card on you,” answered her daughter. “It would be very bad manners indeed if he came here.” “And why hain’t he left his card? I’m sure we’ve done enough for his sister.” “He probably does not feel that any gratitude is obligatory on him. He probably does not approve of her accepting favors from strangers.” “Then he’s born a century out of his time,” said Mrs. Massarene, with the acuteness which occasionally flashed up in her. “In these days, my dear, everybody takes all they can lay their hands on----” “Hush!” said Katherine, as Jean de Reszké came on to the stage. Margaret Massarene would have preferred a companion who would have worn big pearls, and had some color in her gown, and who would have talked all through “the music,” and would have made a sign with a flower or a fan to that handsome man down there to come up with Daddy Gwyllian and chat with them. “Why didn’t my lord come up with ye?” she asked, as Daddy did appear.