appeared to take no notice of him and
he began to think it must be to some one else he owed his invitation.

From this question he was soon diverted by his increasing enjoyment of
the play. It was not indeed a remarkable example of its kind, being
crudely enough put together, and turning on a series of ridiculous and
disconnected incidents; but to a taste formed on the frigid elegancies
of Metastasio and the French stage there was something refreshing in
this plunge into the coarse homely atmosphere of the old popular
theatre. Extemporaneous comedies were no longer played in the great
cities, and Odo listened with surprise to the swift thrust and parry,
the inexhaustible flow of jest and repartee, the readiness with which
the comedians caught up each other's leads, like dancers whirling
without a false step through the mazes of some rapid contradance.

So engaged was he that he no longer observed the Columbine save as a
figure in this flying reel; but presently a burst of laughter fixed his
attention and he saw that she was darting across the stage pursued by
Milord Zambo, who, furious at the coquetries of his betrothed, was
avenging himself by his attentions to the Columbine. Half way across,
her foot caught and she fell on one knee. Zambo rushed to the rescue;
but springing up instantly, and feigning to treat his advance as a part
of the play, she cried out with a delicious assumption of outraged
dignity:--

"Not a step farther, villain! Know that it is sacrilege for a common
mortal to embrace one who has been kissed by his most illustrious
Highness the Heir-presumptive of Pianura!"

"Mirandolina of Chioggia!" sprang to Odo's lips. At the same instant the
Columbine turned about and swept him a deep curtsey, to the delight of
the audience, who had no notion of what was going forward, but were in
the humour to clap any whim of their favourite's; then she turned and
darted off the stage, and the curtain fell on a tumult of applause.

Odo had hardly recovered from his confusion when the door of the box
opened and the young Scaramouch he had seen in the market-place peeped
in and beckoned to Cantapresto. The soprano rose with alacrity, leaving
Odo alone in the dimly-lit box, his mind agrope in a labyrinth of
memories. A moment later Cantapresto returned with that air of furtive
relish that always proclaimed him the bearer of a tender message. The
one he now brought was to the effect that the Signorina Miranda
Malmocc