Then a long reverie, such as she always fell into when alone and unoccupied.  The face was older, but not greatly changed from that of the girl who fought her dread fight with temptation, and lost it, in the lodging at Islington, who, then as now, brooded over the wild passions in her heart and defied the world that was her enemy.  Still a beautiful face, its haughty characteristics strengthened, the lips a little more sensual, a little coarser; still the same stamp of intellect upon the forehead, the same impatient scorn and misery in her eyes.  She asked no one’s pity, but not many women breathed at that moment who knew more of suffering.

For three weeks she had belonged to a company on tour in the northern counties.  In accordance with the modern custom—­so beneficial to actors and the public—­their repertory consisted of one play, the famous melodrama, ‘A Secret of the Thames,’ recommended to provincial audiences by its run of four hundred and thirty-seven nights at a London theatre.  These, to be sure, were not the London actors, but advertisements in local newspapers gave it to be understood that they ’made an ensemble in no respect inferior to that which was so long the delight of the metropolis.’  Starred on the placards was the name of Mr. Samuel Peel, renowned in the North of England; his was the company, and his the main glory in the piece.  As leading lady he had the distinguished Miss Erminia Walcott; her part was a trying one, for she had to be half-strangled by ruffians and flung—­most decorously—­over the parapet of London Bridge.  In the long list of subordinate performers occurred two names with which we are familiar, Miss Grace Danver and Miss Clara Vale.  The present evening would be the third and last in a certain town of Lancashire, one of those remarkable centres of industry which pollute heaven and earth, and on that account are spoken of with somewhat more of pride than stirred the Athenian when he named his Acropolis.

Clara had just risen to stir the fire, compelled to move by the smoke that was annoying her, when, after a tap at the door, there came in a young woman of about five-and-twenty, in a plain walking costume, tall, very slender, pretty, but looking ill.  At this moment there was a slight flush on her cheeks and a brightness in her eyes which obviously came of some excitement.  She paused just after entering and said in an eager voice, which had a touch of huskiness: 

‘What do you think?  Miss Walcott’s taken her hook!’

Clara did not allow herself to be moved at this announcement.  For several days what is called unpleasantness had existed between the leading lady and the manager:  in other words, they had been quarrelling violently on certain professional matters, and Miss Walcott had threatened to ruin the tour by withdrawing her invaluable services.  The menace was at last executed, in good earnest, and the cause of Grace Danver’s excitement was that she, as Miss Walcott’s understudy, would to-night, in all probability, be called upon to take the leading part.