What Mr. Milton Dante’s advance agent had predicted came to pass. Miss Montague-Vance’s triumph was absolute before the curtain had fallen upon the first act of “The Beauty of Gotham,” and by the time the first night’s performance came to an end, all Crumplesea--all masculine Crumplesea, that is to say--was, metaphorically, at her feet. Whatever she might be off the stage, there was no gainsaying the fact that on it, hers was an alluring, lovely personality, and that her beautiful face, and her soft dovelike eyes seemed created to make men lose their heads and their hearts, and to become absolutely insane over her. She could sing, too--not merely carry a tune and let the orchestra furnish all the music, as so many of her kind do, but sing intelligently, sweetly, and with a voice that showed cultivation as well as the melody which had been put into it by nature--and as she exerted herself that night as none of her colleagues had ever known her to do before, it is scarcely to be wondered that she carried everything before her, and that the reception accorded to her by delighted Crumplesea partook of the nature of an ovation. In all the crowd that filled the new opera house and cheered and shouted over her success, there was perhaps only one person--Dora--who did not delight in her triumph. Seated in a proscenium box under the watchful eye and the close guardianship of Mr. Milton Dante, the girl, dumb with shame, and heartsick with despair, remained all the evening with her eyes cast down, and never, even once, looked toward the stage. It was a relief to her when the thing was over, and she was out in the cool night air again, driving back to Minorca Villa, with Mr. Milton Dante on one side of her, Mrs. Skivers--the wardrobe woman of the company, who had been told to look after her in future and to share her room at the villa--on the other, and her mother on the box with Mr. Bodwin, chattering and laughing as they drove home through the fragrant sea-scented darkness. It was close to midnight when they came clattering up to Minorca Villa, to find the landlady--whose palm had been rubbed with the magic ointment of gold beforehand--awaiting them and a tempting little supper on the table. “How sweet of you, dear Mrs. Burners,” said the siren of the evening, as she jumped down and led the way into the house. “I am positively famished. Are Miss Dora’s rooms ready? Thank you; she won’t sit up to-night, I fancy.” “No, nor any other night,” supplemented Dora herself, in a low, firm voice. “I have made up my mind that I will never do what you wish me to do, and you may as well know that now as later. Let me go away; let me go back to Miss Skimmers. I tell you I will never do that thing, never while there is breath in my body.”