“Him?  That’s Leroy—­son of Lord Barminster—­the richest of ’em all.  She belongs to him, she does; so does the whole theatre.  Costs him a pretty penny, you bet.  But lor’ bless yer, he don’t mind!  Can’t spend his money fast enough.  My brother’s one of the shifters; and the things he cud tell yer about ’er, and ’er temper, ’ud make yer ’air stand on end.”

Jessica moved away, while members of the group aired their knowledge of the rapidly entering, smartly-dressed audience.

“That’s Mr. Leroy’s friend, Mr. Vermont,” commenced the first speaker again.  “I’ve ’eard tell ’e does all the work and pays out all the other one’s money; but he ain’t no class himself—­he’s not a real tip-top swell like them others.”  He pointed to a little group of white-waistcoated, immaculately-dressed men, now standing on the steps of the vestibule.  “Lord! this ’ere Casket’ll be crammed with all the swells to-night—­’cos it’s the fashion.”

“So Ada Lester is the fashion now, eh?” commented his companion, who had probably known her in her poorer days, and therefore was inclined to be interested in her.

“Not ’arf, she ain’t,” agreed the man, with the Londoner’s pride in laying down the law on the subject.  “She’s got a house like a duchess, and can eat off gold or silver if she chooses; an’ all for her face, for she can’t act for nuts.  I’ve seen ’er so I know!” With which lordly criticism, he closed the subject.

As for Jessica, sick at heart with jealousy, she turned up one of the side streets to commence her long wait for Adrien Leroy; while the group dispersed, laughing and chattering.

The Casket was filled now to its utmost capacity.  It was the first night of a new piece.  The unfortunate comedy which Ada had so strongly condemned had been withdrawn, and a so-called musical farce—­consisting of very bad music, and still worse comedy—­hastily put on in its stead.  As usual, no expense had been spared in the mounting, and Adrien’s money had been poured out like water on extraordinary costumes, gorgeous, highly-coloured scenery, and a hundred embellishments for this new piece of elaborate and senseless burlesque, Prince Bon-Bon.  But with all its deficiencies as regarded culture, the piece appeared to be a success.

Ada Lester could dance, if she could not act; and she could shout a vulgar patter song, if she could not sing; therefore after a tumultuous first act, during which she had been “Hongkored”—­as she expressed it—­to her heart’s content, she was standing in the wings, with a cigarette between her painted lips, radiant with content and gratified vanity.

“Well, Shelton,” said Leroy, as his friend approached him, where he leaned against a stack of scenery.  “What do you think of the show this time?”

“As beautiful as it is senseless,” was that gentleman’s sarcastic reply.  “Heaven alone knows what it cost you,” he added.

“I certainly don’t know myself,” admitted Adrien, knocking the ash from his cigarette.  “Ask Paxhorn—­he wrote the lyrics, and had the management; or better still Vermont, whom I’m going to see myself presently.  But this will be a success, Mortimer, and I shall make a fortune.”