He had it upon his lips to say that since he was William Henry he could hardly be Frank, but he felt she was in no mood for banter; and, moreover, with that name there naturally occurred to him the thought of Frank Dennis, which made his heart stand still. It was not her anger that he feared, nor even the diminution of her love, which had been indicated very significantly by the mention of his double name (which she had not used for months) instead of ‘Willie,’ but the possible diversion of her love to another object. Perhaps she was already making a comparison in her mind between himself and a certain other person who, whatever his faults, would, she knew, never have deceived her. It was not impossible that love could stray, for had it not done so but a few hours ago, within his own experience, and with no such provocation? It was very different, of course, in his case; there is a certain latitude given to men, and the handsomest man on the stage, or off it, would, he was well aware, not have caused Margaret to forget her Willie even for an instant. But then women, when they are jealous, are capable of anything, and from pique will not only ‘be off’ with those they love, but sometimes ‘be on’ with another. ‘I am very sorry, Margaret,’ he stammered, ‘but I really don’t know what you mean.’ ‘Then your face belies your words,’ was the cold reply. ‘Why did you not tell me yesterday that you were going to meet that woman at Drury Lane this morning?’ ‘There were two of them,’ said William Henry eagerly, urged, as he felt, by some fortunate inspiration to tell the whole truth. ‘Oh, there were two, were there?’ Though she strove to keep her tone the same, there was a relaxation in her severity that did not escape him; the reflection that there was safety in numbers had no doubt occurred to her. ‘You omitted that circumstance, sir, in your previous narrative, with, no doubt, many others.’ ‘Indeed, Margaret, I have told you all; that is, all that I thought could have any interest for you. I ought to have said, of course, that the invitation to the theatre came from both the ladies; they wanted to have some alteration made in the play for them (which of course was out of the question). Mrs. Powell was very angry about it; I should think that she had a temper of her own.’ ‘I don’t want to hear about Mrs. Powell.’ There was once a young gentleman who was endeavouring to make himself agreeable as a _raconteur_ in the presence of Royalty. When he had done his story the Royal lips let fall these terrible words: ‘We are not amused.’ Poor William Henry found himself in much the same position. His reminiscences of Mrs. Powell were, as it were, cut off at the main. Margaret’s instinct had eliminated that factor from the sum of the matter as insignificant; there was another person to talk about, it was true, but he was averse to enter upon that subject. Unhappily it was suggested to him as a topic. ‘Who, may I ask, is this Mrs. Jordan?’