“What is the name of this genius—­I mean the other name?”

“Why, Loveday, of course—­Thomas Loveday.  Do you mean to say I have never told you?”

“Never,” said Claire, meditatively.  “Loveday—­Thomas Loveday—­is it a common name?”

“No, I should think not very common.  Don’t you like it?”

“It—­begins well.”

Here followed another diversion.

“But what I was going to say about Tom,” I continued, “is this—­he has fallen in love; in fact, I have never seen a man so deeply in love.”

“Oh!”

“Anyone else,” I corrected, “for of course I was quite as bad; you understand that.”

“We were talking of Thomas Loveday.”

“Oh, yes, of Tom.  Well, Tom, you know—­or perhaps you do not.  At any rate, Tom has written a tragedy.”

“All about love?”

“Well, not quite all; though there is a good deal in it, considering it was written when the author had no idea of what the passion was like.  But that is not the point.  This tragedy is coming out at the Coliseum in November.  Are you not well, Claire?”

“Yes, yes; go on.  What has all this to do with Tom’s love?”

“I am coming to that.  Tom, of course, has been attending the rehearsals lately.  He will not let me come until the piece is ready, for he is wonderfully nervous.  I am to come and see it on the first night.  Well, as I was saying, Tom has been going to rehearsals, and has fallen in love with—­guess with whom.”

Claire was certainly getting very white.

“Are you sure you are well, Claire?” I asked, anxiously.

“Oh, yes; quite sure.  But tell me with whom—­how should I guess?”

“Why, with the leading actress; one Clarissa Lambert, is it not?”

“Clarissa—­Lambert!”

“Why, Claire, what is the matter?  Are you faint?” For my love had turned deathly pale, and seemed as though she would faint indeed.

We were in the old spot so often revisited, though the leaves were yellowing fast, and the blackbird’s note had long ceased utterly.  I placed my arm around her for support, but my darling unlocked it after a moment, struggled with her pallor, and said—­

“No, no; I am better.  It was a little faintness, but is passing off.  Go on, and tell me about Mr. Loveday.”

“I am afraid I bored you.  But that is all.  Do you know this Clarissa Lambert?  Have you seen her?”

“Yes—­I have seen her.”

“I suppose she is very famous; at least, Tom says so.  He also says she is divine; but I expect, from his description, that she is of the usual stamp of Tragedy Queen, tall and loud, with a big voice.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“No, of course Tom raves about her.  But there is no accounting for what a lover will say.”  This statement was made with all the sublime assurance of an accepted man.  “But you have seen her,” I went on, “and can tell me how far his description is true.  I suppose she is much the same as other actresses, is she not?”