other crimes he could commit to
win her affection, he would, for her sweet sake, commit them cheerfully.
But he doesn't know any others--at all events, he is not well up in any
others--and she still does not care for him, and what is he to do?

It is very unfortunate for both of them. It is evident to the merest
spectator that the lady's life would be much happier if the villain did
not love her quite so much; and as for him, his career might be calmer
and less criminal but for his deep devotion to her.

You see, it is having met her in early life that is the cause of all the
trouble. He first saw her when she was a child, and he loved her, "ay,
even then." Ah, and he would have worked--slaved for her, and have made
her rich and happy. He might perhaps even have been a good man.

She tries to soothe him. She says she loathed him with an unspeakable
horror from the first moment that her eyes met his revolting form. She
says she saw a hideous toad once in a nasty pond, and she says that
rather would she take that noisome reptile and clasp its slimy bosom to
her own than tolerate one instant's touch from his (the villain's) arms.

This sweet prattle of hers, however, only charms him all the more. He
says he will win her yet.

Nor does the villain seem much happier in his less serious love
episodes. After he has indulged in a little badinage of the above
character with his real lady-love, the heroine, he will occasionally try
a little light flirtation passage with her maid or lady friend.

The maid or friend does not waste time in simile or in metaphor. She
calls him a black-hearted scoundrel and clumps him over the head.

Of recent years it has been attempted to cheer the stage villain's
loveless life by making the village clergyman's daughter gone on him.
But it is generally about ten years ago when even she loved him, and her
love has turned to hate by the time the play opens; so that on the whole
his lot can hardly be said to have been much improved in this direction.

Not but what it must be confessed that her change of feeling is, under
the circumstances, only natural. He took her away from her happy,
peaceful home when she was very young and brought her up to this wicked
overgrown London. He did not marry her. There is no earthly reason why
he should not have married her. She must have been a fine girl at that
time (and she is a good-looking woman as it is, with dash and go about
her), and any other man would