Lancelot Vane was still the hero of her romance and that romance would never die.
Sometimes she amused herself and Lancelot too by telling him of the offers of marriage she had received and how she had refused them, but she never mentioned the Duke of Bolton.
One night--it was the twenty-second performance of the opera--Lancelot Vane was in his accustomed place at the end of the second row in the pit.

There was a vacant seat on the other side of his, and half way through the third act a late comer was heard growling and without saying by your leave or with your leave attempted to force himself past Vane into the empty seat.
Lance looked up angry at the rudeness of the fellow.

He started.

He recognised Jeremy Rofflash-Rofflash very much the worse for the drink, very much the worse in every way since Vane had last set eyes upon him.
Things had gone very badly with the swashbuckler.

Archibald Dorrimore, his old patron, was dead, killed by dicing, drinking and other vices.
Rofflash had had to take to the "road" more than ever and he'd had very bad luck.