“Lord Tuftington”—Lord Tuftington! Why, surely that was the name of one of the invaders of Cotley Grange on that never-to-be-forgotten evening. Lord Tuftington! How did his name come to be there? But stop! Here was another that he knew, “Sir Harry Highflyer.” And here again, “The Duchess of Flummery,” and again, “Lady Olivia Pouncebox,” and here—here actually was the name of all others sacred to him, “Lady Lucy Mayflower!” Lady Lucy!
He sat staring at the paper for a moment, and then, scarce knowing what he did, turned to one of his neighbours—
“Pray, sir, is it not a strange thing for such a noble company to give a performance in a public place?”
The man stared, and laughed.
“Sir, I fail to understand you. Where, in heaven’s name, would you have them perform if not in a public place? How else should we see them play?”
“’Tis for charity, no doubt,” cried John, scarcely heeding him, and speaking in a white heat of passionate indignation. “But to me it seems degrading that they should thus expose themselves, so that all who pay a certain price are free to gape at them.”
The man gazed at him blankly for a moment, and then burst out laughing.
“I presume, sir, this is your first visit to a playhouse, and truly, I think, with these sentiments, you would have done better to keep away. But as for the performance being given for charity— Faith, if you were to make such a suggestion to the manager he would tell you that charity began at home, I fancy. By the time he has paid his company, and defrayed the cost of the scenery—”
“Paid the company,” interrupted John, “why, sir, do you mean to tell me that persons of such quality would condescend to play for hire? High-born ladies like—like the Duchess—”
His neighbour positively gaped, and then bending forward gazed at him narrowly—