Certainly, the sedulous manner in which the new tragedy had been advertised was not without result.  To me, unused as I was to theatre-going, the host of people, the hot air, the glare of the gas-lights were intoxicating.  In a flutter of anxiety for Tom’s success, of sweet perturbation at the prospect of meeting Claire, at first I could grasp but a confused image of the scene.  By degrees, however, I began to look about me, and then to scan the audience narrowly for sight of my love.

Surely I should note her at once among thousands.  Yet my first glance was fruitless.  I looked again, examined the house slowly face by face, and again was baffled.  I could see all but a small portion of the pit, the upper boxes and gallery.  Pit and gallery were out of the question.  She might, though it was hardly likely, be in the tier just above, and I determined to satisfy myself after the end of Act I. Meantime I scanned the boxes.  There were twelve on either side of the house, and all were full.  By degrees I satisfied myself that strangers occupied all of them, except the box nearest the stage on the right of the tier where I was sitting.  The occupants of this were out of sight.  Only a large yellow and black fan was swaying slowly backwards and forwards to tell me that somebody sat there.

Somehow, the slow, ceaseless motion of this pricked my curiosity.  Its pace, as it waved to and fro, was unaltered; the hand that moved it seemingly tireless; but even the hand was hidden.  Not a finger could I gain a glimpse of.  By some silly freak of fancy I was positively burning with eagerness to see the fan’s owner, when Tom returned and took his seat beside me.

“It begins in five minutes; everything is ready,” said he, and his voice had a nervous tremor which he sought in vain to hide.

“Courage!” I said; “at least the numbers here should flatter you.”

“They frighten me!  What shall I do if it fails?”

The overture was drawing to its close.  Tom looked anxiously around the house.

“Yes,” he said, “it is crowded, indeed.  By the way, was not Claire to have been here?  Point her out to me.”

“She was; but I cannot see her anywhere.  Perhaps she is late.”

“If so, I cannot see where she is to find a place.  Hush! they are ending.”

As he spoke, the last strains of the orchestra died slowly and mournfully away, and the curtain rose upon “Francesca:  a Tragedy.”

This play has since gained such a name, not only from its own merits (which are considerable), but in consequence also of certain circumstances which this story will relate, that it would be not only tedious but unnecessary to follow its action in detail.  For the benefit, however, of those who did not see it at the Coliseum, I here subjoin a short sketch of the plot, which the better-informed reader may omit.