Cried Geoffrey “Yea! and will not I presently string his ham to save your panting?”

“Tacete!” cried the groundlings.

A moment after, Geoffrey forgot his spleen.  Cupid had noosed him—­bound him tight to the Widow Twankey.  This was a woman most unlike to Angelica:  poplar-tall, I grant you; but elm-wide into the bargain; deep-voiced, robustious, and puffed bravely out with hot vital essences.  Seemed so to Geoffrey, at least, who had no smattering of theatres and knew not his cynosure to be none other than Master Willie Joffers, prime buffo of the day.  Like Angelica, he had had fond visions; and lo here, the very lady of them!

Says he to Angelica, “I am heartset on this widow.”

“By so much the better!” she laughs.  “I to my peacock, you to your peahen, with a Godspeed from each to other.”

How to snare the birds?  A pretty problem:  the fowling was like to be delicate.  So hale a strutter as Aladdin could not lack for bonamies.  “Will he deign me?” wondered meek Angelica.  “This widow,” thought Geoffrey, “is belike no widow at all, but a modest wife with a yea for no man but her lord.”  Head to head they took counsel, cudgelled their wits for some proper vantage.  Of a sudden, Geoffrey clapped hand to thigh.  Student of Boccaccio, Heveletius, and other sages, he had the clue in his palm.  A whisper from him, a nod from Angelica, and the twain withdrew from the box into the corridor without.

There, back to back, they disrobed swiftly, each tossing to other every garment as it was doffed.  Then a flurried toilet, and a difficult, for the man especially; but hotness of desire breeds dexterity.  When they turned and faced each other, Angelica was such a boy as Aladdin would not spurn as page, Geoffrey such a girl as the widow might well covet as body-maid.

Out they hied under the stars, and sought way to the postern whereby the mummers would come when their work were done.  Thereat they stationed themselves in shadow.  A bitter night, with a lather of snow on the cobbles; but they were heedless of that:  love and their dancing hearts warmed them.

They waited long.  Strings of muffled figures began to file out, but never an one like to Aladdin or the Widow.  Midnight tolled.  Had these two had wind of the ambuscado and crept out by another door?  Nay, patience!

At last!  A figure showed in the doorway—­a figure cloaked womanly, but topped with face of Aladdin.  Trousered Angelica, with a cry, darted forth from the shadow.  To Mistress Vandeleur’s eyes she was as truly man as was Mistress Vandeleur to hers.  Thus confronted, Mistress Vandeleur shrank back, blushing hot.

“Nay!” laughs Angelica, clipping her by the wrists.  “Cold boy, you shall not so easily slip me.  A pretty girl you make, Aladdin; but love pierces such disguise as a rapier might pierce lard.”

“Madman!  Unhandle me!” screams the actress.