fitted, that they appear, as it were, part of her person.  Every one that sees her knows her to be of quality; but her distinction is owing to her manner, and not to her habit.  Her beauty is full of attraction, but not of allurement.  There is such a composure in her looks, and propriety in her dress, that you would think it impossible she should change the garb you one day see her in, for anything so becoming until you next day see her in another.  There is no mystery in this, but that however she is apparelled, she is herself the same:  for there is so immediate a relation between our thoughts and gestures that a woman must think well to look well.”

* * * * *

Here, verily, was an actress who could set the town wild by the beauty and exquisite taste of her costumes, and who was conscientious enough, nevertheless, to keep the millinery phase of her art modestly in the background.  You, ladies, who depend for theatrical success upon the elegance of your gowns, and fondly believe that fairness of face and litheness of figure will atone for a thousand dramatic sins, take pattern by the industry of Oldfield.  It will be a much better pattern than those over which you are accustomed to worry your pretty heads.  The enterprising dressmakers who go to the play to get inspiration for new clothes may cease to worship you, but think of the other sort of inspiration which you will give to lovers of the drama!  Then shall there be no more announcements to the effect that, “Miss Lighthead will act Lady Macbeth in ten Parisian gowns made by Worth,” or that when she treats us to the death of Marguerite Gautier (the aforesaid Mdlle.  Gautier dying, as everybody knows, in actual poverty) “Miss Lighthead will wear diamonds representing one hundred thousand dollars.”

There is not much to say about the domesticity of Nance and Arthur Maynwaring.  How could there be?  The lady kept house for her lord and master with grace and modesty (if it seems not paradoxical to mention modesty in this alliance), and it is safe to believe that more than one member of the Kit-Cat Club often tasted a bit of beef and pudding, and sipped a glass of port, at the table of the happy pair.  Congreve, the particular friend and protege of the host, must have dined more than once with brilliant Nance, regaling his plump being with the joy of food and drink, and wondering, perhaps, how any one could prefer the hostess to his particular chere-amie, Anne Bracegirdle.  And Oldfield, of what did she think as she gazed into the rounded face of Mr. Congreve, or listened to the merry wit of her devoted liege?  Did the ghost of poor, dead Farquhar ever arise before her, the reminder of a day when love was younger and passion stronger?  Let us ask no impertinent questions.