Mr. Vane strolled disconsolate; he strolled by the Thames, he strolled up
and down the Strand; and, finally, having often admired the wisdom of
moths in their gradual approach to what is not good for them, he strolled
into the green-room, Covent Garden, and sat down. When there he did not
feel happy. Besides, she had always been cold to him, and had given no
sign of desiring his acquaintance, still less of recognition.
Mr. Vane had often seen a weathercock at work, and he had heard a woman
compared to it; but he had never realized the simplicity, beauty and
justice of the simile. He was therefore surprised, as well as thrilled,
when Mrs. Woffington, so cool, ceremonious and distant hitherto, walked
up to him in the green-room with a face quite wreathed in smiles, and,
without preliminary, thanked him for all the beautiful flowers he had
sent her.
"What, Mrs. Woffington -- what, you recognize me?"
"Of course, and have been foolish enough to feel quite supported by the
thought I had at least one friend in the house. But," said she, looking
down, "now you must not be angry; here are some stones that have fallen
somehow among the flowers. I am going to give you them back, because I
value flowers, so I cannot have them mixed with anything else; but don't
ask me for a flower back," added she, seeing the color mount on his face,
"for I would not give one of them to you, or anybody.
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