tude outside, they had to face the sterner
ordeal of the struggling well-dressed crowd within, surging up the double
staircase of the newly-decorated theatre. The air inside was full of the
hum of talk, and the whole crowd had a homogeneous, almost a family air,
as though the contents of one great London _salon_ had been poured into
the theatre. Everybody seemed to know everybody else; there were
politicians, and artists, and writers of books, known and unknown; there
were fair women and wise women and great ladies; and there was that large
substratum of faithful, but comparatively nameless, persons on whom a
successful manager learns to depend with some confidence on any first
night of importance.

And this was a first night of exceptional interest. So keen, indeed, had
been the competition for tickets that many of those present had as vague
and confused an idea of how they came to be among the favoured multitude
pouring into the _Calliope_ as a man in a street panic has of the devices
by which he has struggled past the barrier which has overthrown his
neighbour. Miss Bretherton's first appearance in _Elvira_ had been the
subject of conversation for weeks past among a far larger number of
London circles than generally concern themselves with theatrical affairs.
Among those which might be said to be within a certain literary and
artistic circumference, people were able to give definite grounds for the
public interest. The play, it was said, was an unusually good one, and
the progress of the rehearsals had let loose a flood of rumours to the
effect that Miss Bretherton's acting in it would be a great surprise to
the public. Further, from the intellectual centre of things, it was only
known that the famous beauty had returned to the scene of her triumphs;
and that now, as in the season, one of the first articles of the social
decalogue laid it down as necessary that you should, first of all, see
her in the theatre, and, secondly, know her--by fair means if possible,
if not, by crooked ones--in society.

It was nearly a quarter to eight. The orchestra had taken their places,
and almost every seat was full. In one of the dress-circle boxes sat
three people who had arrived early, and had for some time employed
themselves in making a study of the incoming stream through their
opera-glasses. They were Eustace Kendal, his sister, Madame de
Chateauvieux, and her husband. The Chateauvieux had travelled over
from Paris expressly