which he proffered with so respectful an air that she could
hardly refuse them. But what did the duke mean? Had he not a duchess
already? True, he was not on the best of terms with her. He had been
forced into marriage by his father and he and his wife had been
separated some six years. But this made no difference. The duchess was
still in the world.

Polly--henceforth she dropped the Lavinia--heard what his grace had to
say but gave him no encouragement beyond smiling bewitchingly now and
again. She did not dislike him, but she did not care for him. Lancelot
Vane was still the hero of her romance and that romance would never die.
Sometimes she amused herself and Lancelot too by telling him of the
offers of marriage she had received and how she had refused them, but
she never mentioned the Duke of Bolton.

One night--it was the twenty-second performance of the opera--Lancelot
Vane was in his accustomed place at the end of the second row in the
pit. There was a vacant seat on the other side of his, and half way
through the third act a late comer was heard growling and without saying
by your leave or with your leave attempted to force himself past Vane
into the empty seat.

Lance looked up angry at the rudeness of the fellow. He started. He
recognised Jeremy Rofflash-Rofflash very much the worse for the drink,
very much the worse in every way since Vane had last set eyes upon him.

Things had gone very badly with the swashbuckler. Archibald Dorrimore,
his old patron, was dead, killed by dicing, drinking and other vices.
Rofflash had had to take to the "road" more than ever and he'd had very
bad luck. A bullet from a coach passenger's pistol had struck his knee
and he now limped. He was nearly always drunk and when drunk all his old
hatreds were uppermost. Directly he saw Vane, his bleary eyes glistened
and his lips tightened over his uneven teeth and the ugly gaps between.

"Devil take me, if it isn't the cockerel whose feathers I've sworn to
pluck. Come to ogle the young trollop on the stage, I'll swear. If I
know anything about the hussy, she'll turn you down for the first spark
who flings a handful of guineas in her lap."

Jeremy's gruff rasping tones were heard all over the house. Polly and
Lucy were singing their duet "Would I might be hanged," and both cast
indignant looks at the side of the pit whence the interruption came. But
they could only hear, not see, so dimly was the theatre lighted.
Meanwhile Vane ha