Latterly he had taken to frequenting the _Lymarket_, where Miss Clorinda Bell was "starring" for a season of legitimate drama. It was the only kind the scrupulous actress would play in. Whenever there was no first night on anywhere else, he went to see Clorinda. Only a few rivals and the company knew of his constancy to the entertainment. Clorinda was, it will be remembered, one of the company. It was the _entr'acte_ and the orchestra was playing a gavotte, to which the eighteenth-century figures on the drop scene were dancing. The Man in the Ironed Mask strolled in the lobby among the critics, overhearing the views they were not going to express in print. Clorinda Bell's mother was brushing her child's magnificent hair into a more tragical attitude in view of the fifth act. The little room was sacred to the "star," the desire of so many moths. Neither maid nor dresser entered it, for Mrs. Bell was as devoted to her daughter as her daughter to her, and tended her as zealously as if she were a stranger. "Yes, but why doesn't he speak?" said Clorinda. "You haven't given him a chance, darling," said her mother. "Nonsense--there is the language of flowers. All my lovers commence by talking that." "You get so many bouquets, dear. It may be--as you say his appearance is so distinguished--that he dislikes so commonplace a method." "Well, if he doesn't want to throw his love at my feet, he might have tried to send it me in a billet-doux." "That is also commonplace. Besides, he may know that all your letters are delivered to me, and opened by me. The fact has often enough appeared in print." "Ah, yes, but genius will find out a way. You remember Lieutenant Campbell, who was so hit the moment he saw me as Perdita that he went across the road to the telegraph-office and wired, 'Meet me at supper, top floor, Piccadilly Restaurant, 11.15,' so that the doorkeeper sent the message direct to the prompter, who gave it me as I came off with Florizel and Camilla. That is the sort of man I admire!" "But you soon tired of him, darling." "Oh, mother! How can you say so? I loved him the whole run of the piece." "Yes, dear, but it was only Shakespeare." "Would you have love a Burlesque? 'A Winter's Tale' is long enough for any flirtation. Let me see, was it Campbell or Belfort who shot himself? I for----oh! oh! that hairpin is irritating me, mother." "There! There! Is that easier?" "Thanks! There's only the Man in the Ironed Mask irritating me now. His dumb admiration provokes me." "But you provoke his dumb admiration. And are you sure it is admiration?" "People don't go to see Shakespeare seventeen times. I wonder who he is--an Italian count most likely. Ah, how his teeth flash beneath his moustache!" "You make me feel quite curious about him. Do you think I could peep at him from the wing?" "No, mother, you shall not be put to the inconvenience. It would give you a crick in your neck. If you desire to see him, I will send for him."