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,--