‘Oh, yes, often; and so has my wife. The great advantage of music-halls like these is that one can come and be entertained at any moment of the evening without being forced to devour one’s dinner with the lightning speed of a Yankee tourist. The mistake made by all theatre managers is the earliness of the hour they appoint for the rising of the curtain. Eight o’clock! Good heavens!—that’s the usual London dinner time; and if one wants to get to the theatre punctually one must dine at six-thirty, which is ridiculous. Plays ought to commence at half-past nine and finish at half-past eleven; especially during the season. No man who loves his home comfort cares to gallop through the pleasantest meal of the day, and rush off to a theatre at eight o’clock; it’s hard work, and is seldom rewarded by any real pleasure. The “Empire” and other places of the same character get on so very well, partly because they leave us a certain choice of hours. La Marina, you see, doesn’t come on till ten.’ ‘She is very beautiful, isn’t she?’ asked Delicia. ‘Oh, my dear!’ said Mrs Cavendish, laughing a little, ‘Beautiful is rather a strong expression! She’s a—well—! What would you call her, Robert?’ appealing to her husband. ‘I should call her a fine, fleshy woman,’ answered Mr Cavendish; ‘Coarsely built, certainly; and I should say she drank a good deal. She’ll get on all right enough while she’s young; but at middle-age she’ll be an appalling spectacle in the way of fat!’ He laughed, but Delicia scarcely heard his last words. She was lost in a wondering reverie. She could have easily understood a low-minded man becoming enamoured of an equally low-minded woman, but what puzzled her was to realise that her handsome and proudly-aristocratic husband should find anything attractive in a person who was ‘coarse’ and ‘drank a good deal.’ But now the musical prelude to the wonderful ‘Birth of a Butterfly’ began, and the low shivering of the violins responded to the melodious complaints of the deeper-toned ’cellos, as the lights of the ‘Empire’ were darkened, and over the crowded audience the kindly veil of a semi-obscurity fell, hiding the play of mean and coarse emotions on many a degraded face, and completely shadowing the wicked devilry of eyes so bereft of honesty, that had hell itself needed fresh sparks to kindle flame, those ugly human glances might have served the purpose. The curtain rose, displaying an exquisitely-painted scene called the ‘Garden of Aurora,’ where, in the rosy radiance of a deftly-simulated ‘dawn of day,’ the green trees trembled to the murmur of the subdued orchestral music, and roses—admirable creations of calico and gauze—hung from the wings in gay clusters, looking almost as if they were real. In the middle of the stage, on a broad green leaf that glittered with a thousand sparkles of imitation dew, lay a large golden cocoon, perfect in shape and shining gloriously in the beams of the mimic sun, to this