the namesakes of Fortune or of Providence, came pleasantly upon the ear.  The still-vexed Bermoothes, Barbadoes, and all the Indies were spoken of; ports to the north and ports to the south, pirate craft and sunken treasure, a flight, a fight, a chase at sea.  The men from Norfolk talked of the great Dismal and its trees of juniper and cypress, the traders of trading, the masters from William and Mary of the humanities.  The greater men, authoritative and easy, owners of flesh and blood and much land, holders of many offices and leaders of the people, paid their respects to horse-racing and cock-fighting, cards and dice; to building, planting, the genteelest mode of living, and to public affairs both in Virginia and at home in England.  Old friends, with oaths of hearty affection, and from opposite quarters of the house, addressed each other as Tom, or Ned, or Dick, while old enemies, finding themselves side by side, exchanged extremely civil speeches, and so put a keener edge upon their mutual disgust.  In the boxes where glowed the women there was comfit talk, vastly pretty speeches, asseverations, denials, windy sighs, the politest oaths, whispering, talk of the play, and, last but not least, of Mr. Haward of Fair View, and Darden’s Audrey.

Haward, entering the pit, made his way quietly to where a servant was holding for him a place.  The fellow pulled his forelock in response to his master’s nod, then shouldered his way through the press to the ladder-like stairs that led to the upper gallery.  Haward, standing at his ease, looked about him, recognizing this or that acquaintance with his slow, fine smile and an inclination of his head.  He was much observed, and presently a lady leaned from her box, smiled, waved her fan, and slightly beckoned to him.  It was young Madam Byrd, and Evelyn sat beside her.

Five minutes later, as Haward entered the box of the ladies of Westover, music sounded, the curtain was drawn back, and the play began.  Upon the ruder sort in the audience silence fell at once:  they that followed the sea, and they that followed the woods, and all the simple folk ceased their noise and gesticulation, and gazed spellbound at the pomp before them of rude scenery and indifferent actors.  But the great ones of the earth talked on, attending to their own business in the face of Tamerlane and his victorious force.  It was the fashion to do so, and in the play to-night the first act counted nothing, for Darden’s Audrey had naught to do with it.  In the second act, when she entered as Arpasia, the entire house would fall quiet, staring and holding its breath.

Haward bent over Madam Byrd’s hand; then, as that lady turned from him to greet Mr. Lee, addressed himself with grave courtesy to Evelyn, clothed in pale blue, and more lovely even than her wont.  For months they had not met.  She had written him one letter,—­had written the night of the day upon which she had encountered Audrey in the Palace walk,—­and he had answered it with