once secured adjoining stalls, for herself, her admirer, her friend, and her friend's admirer. Only in such little parties of four can the modern drama be appreciated or enjoyed.

Miss Douglas had long promised General St. Josephs that she would accompany him to the performance of a popular farce called "Uncle Jack," whereof the humour consisted in an abstraction by "Boots" of a certain traveller's garments at his hotel, and consequent engagement of this denuded wayfarer to the lady of his affections. The General would have walked barefoot to Canterbury for the delight of taking Miss Douglas to the play; and after many miss fires, a night was at length fixed for that treat, of course under the supervision of a chaperon.

Like others who follow "will-o'-the-wisps," St. Josephs was getting deeper into the mire at every step. Day by day this dark bewitching woman occupied more of his thoughts, wound herself tighter round his weary heart. Now for the first time since she died he could bear to recall the memory of the blue-eyed girl he was to have married long ago. Now he felt truly thankful to have baffled the widow at Simla, and behaved like "a monster," as she said, to the foreign countess who used to ride with him in the Park.

Hitherto he was persuaded his best affections had been thrown away, all the nobility of his character wasted and misunderstood. At last he had found the four-leaved shamrock. He cared not how low he stooped to pluck it, so he might wear it in his breast.

For one of his age and standing, such an attachment has its ridiculous as well as its pitiful side. He laughed in his grizzled moustache to find how particular he was growing about the freshness of his gloves and the fit of his coat. When he rode he lengthened his stirrups, and brought his horse more on its haunches. He even adopted the indispensable flower in his button-hole; but could never keep it there, because of his large circle of child-friends, to whom he denied nothing, and who regularly despoiled him of any possession that took their fancy. There was one little gipsy, a flirt, three years of age, who could, and would, have coaxed him out of a keepsake from Miss Douglas herself.

Nobody, I suppose, is insane enough to imagine a man feels happier for being in love. There were moments when St. Josephs positively hated himself, and everybody else. Moments of vexation, longing, and a bitter sense of ill-usage, akin to rage, but for the leavening of sadness that toned it down to grief. He knew from theory and practice how to manage a woman, just as he knew how to bridle and ride a horse. Alas! that each bends only to the careless ease of

conscious mastery.

He could have controlled the Satanella on four legs almost as well as reckless Daisy. He had no influence whatever over her namesake on two.

Most of us possess the faculty of looking on those affairs in which we are deeply interested, from the outside, as it were, and with the eyes of an unbiassed spectator. Such impartial perception, however, while it increases our self-reproach, seems in no way to affect our conduct. General St. Josephs cursed himself for an old fool twenty times a day, but none the more for that did he strive or wish to put from him the folly he deplored.

It was provoking, degrading, to know that, in presence of Miss Douglas he appeared at his very worst; that when he rode out with her, he was either idiotically simple, or morosely preoccupied; that when he called at her house, he could neither find topics for conversation, nor excuses to go away; that in every society, others, whom he rated as his inferiors, must have seemed infinitely pleasanter, wiser, better informed, and more agreeable; and that he, professedly a man of experience, and a man of the world, lost his head, like a raw boy, at the first word she addressed him, without succeeding in convincing her that he had lost his heart. Then he vowed to rebel-to wean himself by degrees-to break the whole thing off at once-to go out of town, leaving no address-to assert his independence, show he could live without her, and never see her again. But when she asked him to take her to the play, he said he should be delighted, and was.

Among the many strange functions of society few seem more unaccountable than its tendency to select a theatre as the rendezvous of sincere affection. Of all places, there is none, I should imagine, where people are more en evidence-particularly in the stalls, a part of the house specially affected, it would seem, as affording no protection to front or rear. Every gesture is marked, every whisper overheard, and even if you might speak aloud, which you mustn't, during the performances, you could hardly impart to a lady tender truths or falsehoods, as the case may be, while surrounded by a mob of people who have paid money with the view of keeping eyes and ears wide open till they obtain its worth.

Nevertheless, and notwithstanding all these drawbacks to confidential communication, no sooner does a fair angler of the present day feel that, in fisherman's language, she "has got a bite," than straightway she carries her prey off to a minor theatre, where by some inexplicable method of her own, she proceeds to secure the gudgeon on its hook.

St. Josephs got himself up with extreme care on the evening

in question. He was no faded petit maître, no wrinkled dandy, curled, padded, girthed, and tottering in polished boots towards his grave. On the contrary, he had the wisdom to grow old gracefully, as far as dress and deportment were concerned, rather advancing than putting back the hand of Time. Yet to-night he did regret the lines on his worn face, the bald place at the crown of his head. Ten years, he thought, rather bitterly, only give him back ten years, and he could have held his own with the best of them! She might have cared for him ten years ago. Could she care for him now? Yes,

surely she must, he loved her so!

"Your brougham is at the door, sir," said his servant, once a soldier, too, a person of calm temperament and a certain grim humour, whose private opinion it was that his master had of late been conducting himself like an old fool.

The General got into his carriage with an abstracted air, and was driven off to dine, nervously and without appetite, at the Senior United.

How flabby seemed the fish, how tasteless the cutlets, how insufferably prosy the conversation of an old comrade at the next table-a jovial veteran, who loved highly-seasoned stories, and could drink still the quantum he was pleased to call his "Whack of Port." Never before had this worthy's discourse seemed so idiotic, his stomach so obtrusive, his chuckles so fatuous and inane. What did he mean by talking about "Fellows of our age" to St. Josephs, who was seven years his junior in the Army List, and five in his baptismal register? Why couldn't he eat without wheezing, laugh without coughing, and why, oh! why could he not give a comrade greeting without slapping him on the back? St. Josephs, drinking scalding coffee before the other arrived at cheese, felt his sense of approaching relief damped by remorse for the reserve and coldness with which he treated his old, tried friend. Something whispered to him, even then, how the jolly gormandising red face would turn to him, true and hearty, when all the love of all the women in London had faded and grown cold.

Nevertheless, at the door of the theatre his pulses leapt with delight. So well timed was his arrival, that Mrs. Lushington and Miss Douglas were getting out of their carriage when his own stopped. Pleased, eager as a boy, he entered the house with Satanella on his arm, placing himself between that lady and her friend, while he arranged shawls, foot-stools, scent-bottles, and procured for them programmes of the entertainment; chary, indeed, of information, but smelling strong of musk.

Need I say that he addressed himself first to Mrs. Lushington? or that, perceiving a vacant stall on the other side of Miss Douglas, his spirit sank while he wondered when and how it would be filled?

Satanella seemed tired and abstracted, “Uncle Jack's" jokes fell pointless on her ear. When St. Josephs could at last think of something to say, she bent her head kindly enough, but persistently refused to accept or understand his tender allusions, interesting herself then, and then only, in the business of the stage. In sheer self-defence, the General felt obliged to do the same.

The house roared with laughter. A celebrated low comedian was running up and down before the foot lights in shirt and drawers. The scene represented a bed-room at an inn. The actor rang his bell, tripped over his coal-scuttle, finally upset his water-jug. Everybody went into convulsions, and St. Josephs found himself thinking of the immortal Pickwick, who "envied the facility with which the friends of Mr. Peter Magnus were amused." Turning to his tormentor, he observed the place by her side no longer vacant, and its occupant was -Daisy !

Mischievous Mrs. Lushington had "asked a man," you see, and this was the man she asked.

Captious, jealous, sensitive, because he really cared for her, St. Josephs' vexation seemed out of all proportion to its cause. He felt it would have relieved him intensely to "have it out" with Miss Douglas-to scold her, take her to task, reproach her roundly-and for what? She had never asked Daisy to come; she had not kept a seat for him at her elbow. From her flushed cheek, her bright smile, it could not but be inferred that this was an unexpected meeting-a delightful surprise.

Calm and imperturbable, Daisy settled himself as if he were sitting by his grandmother. Not till he had smoothed his moustache, buttoned his gloves, and adjusted his glasses, did he find time to inform Miss Douglas "that he knew she would be here, but did not think she could have got away from dinner so soon; that the house was hot, the stalls were uncomfortable, and this thing was not half bad fun if you'd never seen it before." The General, cursing him for “a cub," wondered she could find anything in such conversation to provoke a smile on that proud, beautiful face.

What was it she whispered behind her fan ?—the fan he loved to hold because of the fragrance it seemed to breathe from her. He scarcely knew whether to be relieved or irritated when he overheard certain questions as to the progress of the black mare. It vexed him to think these two should have a common interest, should find it so

engrossing, should talk about it so low. Why couldn't they attend to the farce they had come on purpose to see?

Mrs. Lushington, although she must have been surfeited with that unmeaning and rather tiresome admiration which such ladies find. floating in abundance on the surface of London society, was yet ready at all times to accept fresh homage, add another captive to the net she dragged so diligently through smooth and troubled waters alike. Till the suggestion came from her friend, it had never occurred to her that the General was worth capturing. She began now in the usual way.

"What a number of pretty women!" she whispered.

"Don't you

think so, General? I haven't seen as much beauty under one roof since Lady Scavenger's ball.”

Abstracted though he was, her companion had those habits of society which of all others seem to be second nature, so he answered:

"There are only two pretty women in the house as far as I see, and they asked me to come to the play with them to-night."

She had a fascinating way of looking down and up again, very quick, with a glance, half shy, half funny, but altogether deadly. Even her preoccupied neighbour felt its influence, while she replied:

"You say so because you think all women are vain, and like to be flattered, and have no heart. It only shows how little you know us. Do you mean to tell me," she added, in a lighter tone, "that's not a pretty girl, in the second row there, with a mauve ribbon through her hair?"

She was pretty, and he thought so; but St. Josephs, being an old soldier in more senses than one, observed sententiously -

"Wants colouring-too pale-too sandy, and I should say freckled by daylight."

"We all know you admire dark beauties," retorted the lady, “or you wouldn't be here now."

"You're not a dark beauty," returned the ready General; "and I knew you were coming too."

"That too' spoils it all," said she, with another of her killing glances. "Hush! you needn't say any more. If you won't talk to her, at least attend to the stage."

Satanella meanwhile was perusing Daisy's profile as he sat beside her, and wondering whether anybody was ever half so good-looking and so unconscious of his personal advantages. Not in the slightest degree embarrassed by this examination, Mr. Walters expressed his