“I tell you I remember the circumstances perfectly—­the duke wore a gray overcoat,” said drunkard No. 1.

“Get out!  I tell you to get out!” cried drunkard No. 2.  “Brave Battlemoor, I say; long live Battlemoor!  Have a drink?—­I want Battlemoor to drink with me.”

“For God’s sake have a drink with him,” said Sally, “and then perhaps he’ll take another box for my benefit.”

“What, another?”

“Only a guinea one this time; there’s the ticket—­fork out.  And now I must be off.”

The street echoed with the porter’s whistle, half a dozen cabs came racing for these excellent customers, and to the Trocadero they went.  The acting manager passed them in.  Mike, Sally, Marquis, and the drunkards lingered in the bar behind the auditorium, and brandies-and-sodas were supplied to them over a sloppy mahogany counter.  A woman screamed on the stage in green silk, and between the heads of those standing in the entrance to the stalls, her open mouth and an arm in black swede were seen occasionally.

Tired of drunkenness and slang Mike went into the stalls.  The boxes were bright with courtesans; the young men whispered invitations to drink, and the chairman, puffing at a huge cigar, used his little hammer and announced “Miss Sally Slater will appear next.”  Battlemoor roared approval, and then in a short skirt and black stockings Sally rushed to the footlights and took her audience, as it were, by the throat.

  “Oh, you men, what would you do without us? 
     You kiss us, you cuddle and play,
     You win our hearts away. 
   Oh, you men, there’s something so nice about us.”

The “Oh, you men,” was given with a shake of the fist and the waggle of the bustle, in which there was genius, and Mike could not but applaud.  Suddenly he became aware that a pair of opera-glasses were bracketed upon him, and looking up he saw Kitty Carew sitting with a young nobleman, and he saw the white line of her teeth, for she was laughing.  She waved him to come to her.

“You dear old sweet,” she said, “where have you been all this time?—­Come, kiss me at once.”  And she bent her head towards him.

“And now Newtimber, good-bye; I want to be with Mike.  But you’ll not forget me, you’ll come and see me one of these days?” And she spoke so winningly that the boy hardly perceived that he was dismissed.  Mike and Kitty exchanged an inquiring look.

“Ah! do you remember,” she said, “when I was at the Avenue, and you used to come behind? ...  You remember the dear old marquis.  When I was ill he used to come and read to me.  He used to say I was the only friend he had.  The dear marquis—­and he is gone now.  I went to his grave yesterday, and I strewed the tomb with chrysanthemums, and every spring he has the first lilac of my garden.”

“And who is your lover?”

“I assure you I haven’t got one.  Harding was the last, but he is becoming a bore; he philosophizes.  I dare say he’s very clever, but people don’t kiss each other because they are clever.  I don’t think I ever was in love....  But tell me, how do you think I am looking?  Does this dress suit me?  Do I look any older?”