false and tinsel-like round of existence. A bell
rang for dinner, the mill stopped in a second,
the machine ceased to travel, the hands—I
suppose at least three hundred supernumeraries—
poured out down the real stairs (here there were
real fire-cocks), and Rose, the virtuous engine-
driver's daughter, was left behind. She is not
in a hurry to get to dinner: she has properly no
regular home to go to; for her father's home is
on his tender. But the overseer is kind to her,
delicate, considerate, and, at this moment, is
speaking to her. This was really getting
interesting; and if I have any experience in human
countenances, I should say that overseer—yes
there was something gentle and seducing in his
manner. Rose, orphan, be on your guard!
He is saying he could get her made nursery
governess in his mother's family; and I declare
she wavers. No; she will consider.

I drew back to breathe a little freely, when I
heard a rustle and a voice behind me, saying,
in a sort of suppressed whisper, "Will they never
come?"

I was really confounded; for close behind
me, with her chair almost touching mine, I saw
a pair of the darkest, largest, deepest, most
piercing black eyes, set in two deep shaded
caverns. A lady confronted me—of Spanish
extraction, I should say—for she was all in
black silk and black lace, which, of course, are
conclusive. Were those wonderful eyes fixed
with a deep intense stare upon me? No, they
paid me no such compliment; their glance flew
past me, as an express does by some
contemptible little signal-station. I was a little
nettled—of course, at the intrusion.

"I beg your pardon," I said, "but I think
there must be some mistake."

She started. "Mistake!" she said. "There
could be none. It is impossible. My information
could not deceive me. They were to be
here."

And the eyes never turned from the fixed
point opposite. I was still more nettled.

"I don't know whether they were to be here
or not," I said, "but I merely state that this is
a private box, paid for—I mean, taken by me,
and——"

"Number Twenty?" she asked.

"The very number," I said.

"Exactly opposite Number Forty—quite
right," she said. "All has fallen out exactly
as I directed. Oh!" she added, impatiently,
"will they never come? Am I to be foiled
again?"

"This is my box, madam," I repeated,
louder.

"Ah! you fatigue me. Go—leave me. Do
you want more? There then!" And she held
out money.

This outrage was too much. Her eyes were
still, turned to the fixed point, and she did not
care I suppose, to distinguish me from the
person who had shown her to my box. Yes,
my box. That moved me.

"I should be sorry," I said, rising, "to——"

On a sudden she caught my arm. "THERE
—there, at last! Now I can trust my eyes.
Sit down—don't stir—not a motion—not a
sound." And she caught my arm with a grip
and clutch that made me wince. "You are
witness," she said, passionately, "you who are
belonging to this place. Mind, I shall call on
you. Take care you are in your office. Look
at the pair. Look at them well, so that you
shall know them again. There he is—with his
hooked nose, and his perfidious smile; and she,
the weak, insipid, sickly, colourless creature!
Don't you wonder at his taste?"

I was really growing curious, and did at last
look across; and certainly, in the box exactly
opposite, which had been empty up to that
moment, were sitting a lady and gentleman, whom
she had very happily and photographically hit
off. A very hooked nose, and a smile that really
amounted to a leer. And a very fair blonde,
a young woman, with quite the insipid expression
she had described.

"You see them," she said—"the pair?"

"I do, and I must say I do wonder at his
taste, whoever he be—that is, if his taste lie
in being where he is instead of being where
I am."

"Exactly," she said, eagerly, and with a
kindly sort of manner. "Ah, you know
human nature——"

"A little," I was beginning, modestly.

"You see all the types—old and young,
the gay, the dissipated, and the virtuous—all
come to you on the one errand. Sir, I am that
man's wife—his injured, abused, deserted wife!
He has left me——"

"For the colourless creature?"

"Yes, for her. Can you conceive such a
depraved, corrupted taste? He thinks I am
in Paris, but I am not."

I gave a motion of assent, for I could not
dispute that.

"No, I am not," she repeated. "I have
tracked him. I have overtaken him—run him
down; and you little thought, when you brought
him there and brought me here, what you
were doing. Never mind—all in good time.
All, I see I can count on you. After you have
discharged your duties here, I would speak with
you. You will see me to my home. I have no
friend in this great city. I am French—a
French orphan girl, portionless; she has wealth.
He thinks he can get rid of me and wed her; but
he won't."

This was growing interesting. I felt a deep
sympathy for this fine creature, treated so
cruelly. Just as my eyes wandered across to
the pair opposite (all this time she kept herself
well concealed behind the curtain) I gave
a start, for in the next box, each with an
opera-glass turned towards Number Twenty, I
recognised two figures that I knew. I declare,
the marching captain and his confederate, the
mercenary Irish clergyman, the latter clumsily
disguised by muffling—a white coat and the like!
He didn't take me in. They had found me out,
and were chuckling together.

I knew what their miserable game would