"Elliston himself is kind enough to play one of my characters, and the others he has given to his very best performers." "What a charming actor is Elliston," I remarked. "Would you like to be acquainted with him?" said Livius. "Of all things in the world," I replied. "The impression he made on me when I was only thirteen years of age, I have not forgotten yet." "If then," added Livius, "you will allow me to make up your party for the play to-morrow, I have a private box at your service, and I will invite the Honourable George Lamb to join us. Elliston plays in _Wild Oats_, but he will come to us between the acts, or after the play, I have no doubt. At any rate with your permission, we will all sup together at my hotel in Dover Street. I have very good rooms there and three pianofortes, on either of which I shall be delighted to hear you play." I assured him that I would hold myself in readiness at any hour he would appoint to call for me. "Will you be offended if I venture to introduce a young lady to you?" Livius asked. "Not at all, provided you permit me to cut her dead, in case her society should not be to my taste." "Certainly," said Livius; and after begging me to expect him in his own carriage, at seven on the following evening, he left me. Livius's little farce of _Maid and Wife_ was advertised for the approaching Monday. On that day, Livius and I and a pretty, weak, childish young lady found our way to a private box at Drury Lane Theatre, just at the close of the first of _Wild Oats_. We were soon joined by my own faithful Frederick's brother, the honourable George Lamb, to whom I was presented by Livius. I immediately began to discuss the merits and demerits of Frederick with my usual and abrupt frankness. "Can anything be more ridiculous," I exclaimed, "than the rage which is caused alone by your not returning a man's passion! Why blame one for what really cannot be helped?" "Very fine talking," retorted George Lamb, "but, in fact, love is the most arbitrary passion we are susceptible of. If you torture a man he must naturally hate you." "Do you believe in God?" I asked. "_Et vous, Madame?_" said George Lamb. "I do indeed," I replied, "believe in his goodness, but not in his vengeance. I dread and abhor the idea of offending him because I believe he would forgive all my faults." George Lamb looked incredulous. "If I do really believe in a God, and a hereafter, would you have me affect to be a disbeliever? Because there is an ironical smile on your countenance." "Not at all," replied George Lamb, with honest truth, or the resemblance of it at least: "not at all; those who do believe in God are mean and contemptible, when they feel ashamed of confessing their faith."