d she for her part
disliking him just as cordially.

Next day the critics referred to the scene with glowing words, while
in the coffee houses they discussed the proposition: Should an actress
feel the emotion she portrays? With a cynical smile the marquis read
the different accounts of the performance, when he and his companion
found themselves in the old stage coach _en route_ for Brighton. He
felt no regret for his action--had not the Prince of Wales taught the
gentlemen of his kingdom that it was fashionable to desert actresses?
Had he not left the "divine Perdita" to languish, after snubbing her
right royally in Hyde Park?

Disdainfully the lady in the coach regarded her husband and it
was evident that the ties of affection which bound these two
travelers together on life's road were neither strong nor enduring.
Yet they were traveling together; their way was the same; their
destination--but that belongs to the future. The marquis had been
relieved in his mind after a consultation with a distinguished
barrister, and, moreover, was pleased at the prospect of leaving
this island of fogs for the sunny shores of France. The times
were exciting; the country, on the verge of proposed electoral
reforms. But in France the new social system had sprung into
existence and--lamentable fact!--duty towards one's country had
assumed an empire superior to ancient devotion toward kings.

To stem this tide and attach himself closely to King Charles X was the
marquis' ambitious purpose. For this he had espoused a party in
marrying a relative of the royal princess, thus enhancing the ties
that bound him to the throne, and throwing to the winds _his_ Perdita
whose charms had once held him in folly's chains. Did he regret the
step? Has ravening aspiration any compunction; any contrite visitings
of nature? What did the player expect; that he would violate
precedence; overthrow the fashionable maxims of good George IV; become
a slave to a tragi-comic performer and cast his high destiny to the
winds? Had ever a gentleman entertained such a project? Vows? Witness
the agreeable perjuries of lovers; the pleasing pastime of fond
hearts! Every titled rascallion lied to his mistress; every noble
blackguard professed to be a Darby for constancy and was a Jonathan
Wild by instinct. If her ideals were raised so high, the worse for
her; if a farce of a ceremony was regarded as tying an indissoluble
knot--let her take example by the lady who thou