er."

"Show me Godolphin, and I'll thank you. I didn't come to stay--did you?"

"No. Horrid bore, ain't it? But since you are here, you may as well take
a look at the dearest little actress I ever saw since I was a boy, and
bewitched by Leontine Fay. Sit down." Bevan went on, as they entered a
room fitted up like a theatre, "There, it's that one with blue eyes, got
up like a Watteau's huntress; isn't she a brilliant little thing?"

"Very. She plays as well as Dejazet. Who is she?"

"Don't know. Can you tell us, Forester?"

"She's old Cash's niece," said Forester, not taking his eyes off the
stage. "Come as a sort of companion to the beloved Bella; dangerous
companion, I should say, for there's no comparing the two."

"What's her name?"

"Viola--Violet--no, Valerie L'Estrange. L'Estrange, of the 10th, ran
away with Cash's sister. God knows why. Horrid low connexion, and no
money. She went speedily to glory, and he drank himself to death two
years ago in Lahore. I remember him, a big fellow, fourteen stone,
pounded Bully Batson once at Moseley, and there wasn't such another hard
hitter among the fancy as Bully. When he departed this life, of course
his daughter was left to her own devices, with scarcely a rap to buy her
bonnets. Clever little animal she is, too; she wrote those proverbs
they're now playing; full of dash, and spice, ain't they? especially
when you think a girl wrote 'em."

"Introduce me as soon as they're over," said Falkenstein, leaning back
to study the young actress and author, who was an engaging study enough,
being full of grace and vivacity, with animated features, mobile
eyebrows, dark-blue eyes, and chestnut hair. "Anything original would be
as great a wonder as to buy Cavendish in Regent-Street that wasn't
bird's-eye."

"Valerie's original enough for anybody's money. Hark how she's firing
away at Egerton. Pretty little soft voice she has. I do like a pretty
voice for a woman," said Forester, clapping softly, with many a murmured
bravisima.

"You're quite enthusiastic," smiled Falkenstein. "Pity you haven't a
bouquet to throw at her."

"Don't you poke fun at me, you cynic," growled Forester. "I've seen you
throw bouquets at much plainer women."

"And the bouquets and the women were much alike in morning light--faded
and colorless on their artificial stalks as soon as the gas glare was
off them."

"Hold your tongue, Juvenal," laughed Forester, "or I vow I won't
introduce you. You'll