‘But won’t you just lighten my Edmunda a little, Mr. Erin,’ persisted Mrs. Powell; ‘a touch here and a touch there?’ ‘My dear madam, supposing even I were capable of doing such a thing (which I am not), just consider what people would say if I touched the play. Even now our enemies attack its authenticity, and what a handle must such a proceeding needs afford them.’ ‘That is surely reasonable,’ observed Mrs. Jordan for the second time. ‘I don’t know about reasonable,’ returned Mrs. Powell with a most bewitching pout; ‘but I know if you were not here I could persuade him.’ ‘Shall I leave you?’ said Mrs. Jordan, making a feint of retiring from the room. ‘Oh no,’ pleaded William Henry involuntarily. ‘Well, upon my life,’ cried Mrs. Powell, ‘you are a most complimentary young man! However, I’ll leave _you_, which considering the company you are in, will be quite revenge enough.’ She stood at the door, drawn up to her full height like a tragedy queen; then suddenly altering her tone, her air, her voice, and becoming as if by magic the very picture of pity, she added ‘Poor Margaret!’ and was gone. ‘She is a queer mad creature, but means no harm,’ said Mrs. Jordan consolingly. ‘She was angry at your refusal to alter her part for her, and when she is angry she will say anything. You must not mind her. Now, I’ve taken a fancy to you, Master——. By the bye, what is your name?’ ‘Erin.’ ‘Chut! I mean your Christian name?’ ‘William Henry.’ ‘And what does Margaret call you?’ ‘Willie.’ ‘Very good; then since I have no wish to poach on Margaret’s preserves, I shall call you “Henry.“ I have taken a fancy to you, Master Henry, and mean to do you a service; a gentleman of influence, with whom I have some interest, wants to look at these Shakespeare manuscripts, and has directed them to be at his house this morning.’ ‘I am afraid they will not be there,’ said William Henry. ‘My father has never permitted them to leave Norfolk Street except once, at the personal request of the Prince Regent.’ ‘Nevertheless, I think the gentleman I speak of will have his way,’ said the actress, smiling. ‘Now I wish him, in case he sees the manuscripts, to see their discoverer also. Perhaps he may give him a helping hand.’ ‘You are very kind,’ said William Henry gently: it was not gratitude for the favour to come that moved him, for he had no suspicion how it was to be realised, but her evident warmth of feeling towards him. Her manner had not only an exquisite grace, but an unmistakable tenderness; and then she was so exceedingly handsome. A young man’s heart is like the tinder, which in those days, with flint and steel, was the substitute for our lucifer matches; away from its box it is liable to danger from every spark. ‘You are very good and kind,’ repeated William Henry mechanically; he felt an impulse, hard to be withstood, to add ‘and very beautiful.’