Society had not been talking about the art of Mrs. Ross’s protegee for nothing; and that art soon made short work of Keith Macleod’s doubts.  The fair stranger he had met at Prince’s Gate vanished into mist.  Here was the real woman; and all the trumpery business of the theatre, that he would otherwise have regarded with indifference or contempt, became a real and living thing, insomuch that he followed the fortunes of this spoiled child with a breathless interest and a beating heart.  The spell was on him.  Oh, why should she be so proud to this poor lover, who stood so meekly before her?  “Coquette, coquette” (Macleod could have cried to her), “the days are not always full of sunshine; life is not all youth, and beauty, and high spirits; you may come to repent of your pride and your cruelty.”  He had no jealousy against the poor youth who took his leave; he pitied him, but it was for her sake; he seemed to know that evil days were coming, when she would long for the solace of an honest man’s love.  And when the trouble came—­as it speedily did—­and when she stood bravely up at first to meet her fate, and when she broke down for a time, and buried her face in her hands, and cried with bitter sobs, the tears were running down his face.  Could the merciful heavens see such grief, and let the wicked triumph?  And why was there no man to succor her?  Surely some times arise in which the old law is the good law, and a man will trust to his own right arm to put things straight in the world?  To look at her!—­could any man refuse?  And now she rises and goes away, and all the glad summer-time and the sunshine have gone, and the cold wind shivers through the trees, and it breathes only of farewell.  Farewell, O miserable one! the way is dark before you, and you are alone.  Alone, and no man near to help.

Macleod was awakened from his trance.  The act drop was let down; there was a stir throughout the theatre; young Ogilvie turned to him,—­

“Don’t you see who has come into that corner box up there?”

If he had told that Miss White, just come up from Prince’s Gate, in her plain black dress and blue beads, had just arrived and was seated there, he would scarcely have been surprised.  As it was, he looked up and saw Colonel Ross taking his seat, while the figure of a lady was partially visible behind the lace curtain.

“I wonder how often Mrs. Ross has seen this piece?” Ogilvie said.  “And I think Colonel Ross is as profound a believer in Miss White as his wife is.  Will you go up and see them now?”

“No,” Macleod said, absently.

“I shall tell them,” said the facetious boy as he rose and got hold of his crush hat, “that you are meditating a leap on to the stage to rescue the distressed damsel.”

And then his conscience smote him.

“Mind you,” said he, “I think it is awfully good myself.  I can’t pump up any enthusiasm for most things that people rave about, but I do think this girl is uncommonly clever.  And then she always dresses like a lady.”