And I live here, at twenty-four, almost opposite.

(aside.)This may be a mere ruse.(aloud.)If you live then as you say at twenty-four, why don't you go in doors, and not remain in the street.

Like you, I'm almost locked out; at least I've lost my latch key, which is something towards it.

(sneezing.)I shall get my death of cold.

I'm not to be sneezed at in that way, I can tell you. Perhaps you don't believe that this is my domicile. I'll prove it thus—(knocks.)—thus—(knocks.)—thus—(knocks.)—I hope old Kitty will hear me, but she is as deaf as a post, so my chances are not favourable. Besides being rheumatic, she has a mortal aversion to getting up in the night—(knocks.)—:unless Morpheus squeezes her tighter in his arms than I should like to, she ought to hear that.(to Lottie.)I'm afraid we are both doomed to share the street together. Never mind, it's wide enough for two.

It's all very fine for you to be so easily reconciled, but I consider it a dreadful affair.

(aside.)Poor thing. It's bad enough for a man to be locked out, but for one of the gentler sex, it is too bad.(aloud.)If I were to knock at your door and you at mine—I wonder if that would answer any better.

I don't see the philosophy of your proposition.

I have still a better plan, we will both knock together. Perhaps the mutual noise will produce its effect. Now, then. (they knock at their respective doors at the same time.

It's bad enough to be locked in, but being locked out is even worse. I give it up as a bad job. If they were not dead and buried they would have heard that.

I fancy the servant hears, but, owing me a grudge, will not get up.

(aside.)I wouldn't be her in the morning for something.

(half apart.)How very silly of me to stay out so late—I'm shivering with cold.

as you say, it is late. But never mind, the moon, silvery pet, shines beautifully over head, and I never saw so many stars out at once—did you?

I don't feel like star-gazing, and as for the moon, if there were a dozen of them shining all at once I wouldn't look at them.

(aside.)Poor creature—she's cold, and that makes her cross. (aloud.)Now, if I ask you something, don't think it rude. Where have you been ?

Not that it concerns you at all—but I was at the theatre.

I was there also. You didn't happen to see me, did you—that's rather remarkable, is it not ?

There were a great many others there besides us, so I confess I don't recognise anything very remarkable.

As we can't get in let us talk and be sociable. I'll ask you questions and you answer them, or you ask me questions and I'll answer them, or we'll both ask each other questions and both answer them, whichever way you like. Now, then I'll commence. Are you fond of a play ?

Now and then.

I'm fond of a play, too, now and then. Now that is remarkable. You and I are excessively similar.

In what respect?

In respect to having been to the play and liking it now and then.

There, I fancy, the resemblance stops.

I hope it does not. It is a great mistake for anything to stop. The world was made to go on, or go round, which is much the same—progress, advancement is the order of the day—of the night too, I may add. Rest assured, miss, nothing should stop.

Except your terrible tongue. The sooner that stops the better.

(aside.)It's rather odd, but I've been told that before.

(coughing.)I shall be laid up—I know I shall.

You'll get your death of cold if you stand still. Suppose you accept my arm and we'll take a stroll to Liverpool and back ; by that time it will be daybreak.

(ironically.)You are very kind, but I prefer to be alone. Good thought! I have a friend in the next street. It's rather an awkward hour of the night—

Of the morning. I beg your pardon.

Well, of the morning, then, to claim a friend's hospitality, but I see nothing else left for me to do.

And I'll remain here and watch the moon. They say there is a man in it. I wish it was a female instead. (bowing.)Good morning, miss, I hope I may never have the pleasure of seeing you again—

Sir!

In a similar situation—locked out!

Good morning, sir. I trust you never may. I hope I shall be able to find a lodging at my friends'—I am almost perished with the cold. (she says this as she goes off at back, L. H.

It's not often I am positive, very positive at least, but I fancy I have heard that voice before, but where is the difficult point to determine. I mustn't get sentimental here in the cold. (relapsing into a thoughtful attitude.)I should like to have seen her face, though. One just defines sufficient by this light to see nothing at all clearly. (changing his manner.)Let me see, how shall I pass away the time ? I wish I could make old Kitty hear me. (knocks loudly.)I'm all in a shiver. (knocks again.) What business has a woman to be deaf who takes lodgers? I'll never lodge with a baby linen merchant again— I'll sing out "milk, " perhaps that will stir her. (cries "milk" in imitation.)Mie-iaw! I wish I had a hand organ with " Billy Barlow " on it, I'd give her a dose of grinding she'd remember some time. (imitates the crowing of a cock.)She rises early, perhaps that will rouse her—no ! (knocks.)Confound the old insect—it's no go ! she must have fallen a prey to apoplexy or some dreadful malady. What shall I do to pass away the time? (takes book from his pocket.)I wonder if I can read! no, the moon is not bright enough to read this fine type. Oh, I know what I'll do—I'll smoke. (replaces book, and takes out cigar case from his pocket.)Just one left—Now where shall I get fire. (looking at the gaslight.)I wish they would bring lamp-posts nearer to the earth. (twists a play-bill — tries to light it at lamp—fails.)I can't do it, and without fire what use is all the cigars this side of Havanah? (looking off, R. H.)There goes a man smoking, I'll just borrow a little of his fire. I say, hi ! hi ! Exit at back, R. H., calling.

(gruffly.)Who's that knocking at the door? (looking down.)I don't see any one. It can't be Oscar, for he's got a latch key. I was so long finding my slippers, they must have gone away. I suppose it was some drunken wag playing tricks with the knocker. What a fool I was to get up. This night air will make my rheumatiz worse. If I catch anybody botherin' with the street door I'll empty this jug of water over them. (shuts down window fiercely.)

(hearing the window shut down.)What was that ? I thought I heard a noise at the window. (looking up at the window of house, L. H.)No, all is dark and silent. How unfortunate, Mary Connor and her mamma gave up their apartments yesterday, and have gone to live at Putney. (looking round.)I wonder if that young man succeded in making himself heard. I suppose so, he is not here. I wish I had the same good luck. I don't know why, but I fancy I recognise his voice, or one like it, but it's one I knew a long while ago. I'll knock one more. (she knocks.)It's no use, I suppose I may as well resign myself to fate and the door step. (sits on the door step, and seems to grow drowsy.)I don't know whether it's the walk, or the night air, or the hours, or the play, or what, but I feel so sleepy, my eyes seem to close in spite of all I can do. (yawning and speaking slowly.)I declare, I won't—I won't go to sleep.( nodding.)And when—I—say—I won't do a thing— I— (falls off to sleep.)

What distinguished people one meets at night. The man who gave me a light was Louis Napoleon, at least if it wasn't he, it was somebody like the prints of him, which is all the same. (walking about, stamping his feet.)I wonder if my little neighbour succeeded in finding a lodging at her friends'. I suppose so. I wish I had a friend, to whom I could apply. How devilish cold it is to be sure, and I'm getting sleepy as well.

(simultaneously.)Who's there? (they run up against each other.)

(yet half asleep.)Who is that?

Hallo ! I believe I was asleep.

How curious, so was I, and I was having such a pleasant dream about old times and my native home.

You had better stay near me, there may be danger.(fire at back, R. H.)I believe the whole neighbourhood is in flames.( she faints, he supports her.)Poor creature, the agita- has caused her to faint. What shall I do to revive her, I wonder?(fanning her with his hat.)Fresh air and plenty of it is good in these cases, they say.

(reviving.)Where am I?

In the old location, and still locked out.

I do believe I fainted.

You did indeed.

This being in the open air all night is dreadful, is it not?

It can't be helped now. Don't think me rude, don't think I presume on the fact of your being locked out, but to pass away the time suppose we amuse each other by relating each other's history. What do you say?

My history is not a very entertaining one.

When it is to pass away such dull hours as these, anybody's history would afford some entertainment. Now, you said you were dreaming of your native home—where was that, pray?

It seems very odd to exchange confidences with a stranger here in the street. Still I don't mind telling you— Windermere.

Is it possible ? Why Windermere is my native place.

Indeed ! Perhaps you have heard of the Lee family.

The Lees? I should say I had, indeed. But I haven't seen any of them for years—not since I was quite a lad in fact. Little Lottie Lee—as we used to call her, was one of my village schoolmates.

(with surprise.)And strange to say the little Lottie Lee you speak of— (with a low curtsey.)is your very humble servant.

Can it be possible ? Lottie Lee! my old schoolmate ! hurrah! hurrah! (embracing her.)Only to think of meeting you.

(repelling him with slight hauteur.)I confess I have not the pleasure of remembering you.

Don't you remember Oscar Maynard?

(with a confused surprise.)Oscar Maynard ! why, so it is ! Do you know I thought I had heard your voice before. It set me to thinking three or four times (he embraces her.)

Why, Lottie, how changed you are. You used to be a little fat dumpling of a thing—now you are tall and stately, and—Oh ! I must have another embrace. (he turns her around gaily.

And how you have altered. It has been so many years since I saw you. Then you were the picture of a nice country lad—

I know—a rosy young rascal with colour like a peach.