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singers. My sense of disaster had improved since leaving the inn. I had a premonition, when he started puffing off a new girl, that my third calamity had come, with a vengeance. The new girl was Perdita. The only saving grace was that he had the wits to call her by another name. In honour of the season, he called her Miss April Spring. Really!
    She was got up in an outfit that was surely designed for wear in a bordello. It consisted of about two yards of transparent red gauze, sprinkled strategically with white flowers. There was a lamp shining behind her, lest any hard-of-seeing gentleman be deprived of her outline. Her blond hair had been stirred up with a spoon, to sit in beguiling disorder above her painted face. She carried a large fan of white ostrich feathers, which I wished she would hold in front of her body to hide her shame, but she did not. She perched it over her left shoulder, as she began to sing a travesty of a ballad. “Woeful Heart with Grief Oppressed” was her first rendition. It was perfectly wretched. The private dramatic academy had not taught song, only overacting. Her voice was small, high, light and off-key. She was nervous too, which added an air of discomfort to the performance. I hardly knew whether to laugh, cry or hang my head in shame. But as I considered, I thought it might be a good lesson for her if the audience gave her a sound boohing.
    Hah! Boohing indeed! They loved her. It was not the voice that was under inspection, but the body. The applause at the song’s end would deafen an auctioneer. It was led by the city bucks, who stood up to give her a standing ovation, while they urged, nay—commanded, the others to do likewise, meanwhile bellowing “More! More!,” as if their lives depended on it. She did not disappoint them. After a hurried and amateurish discussion with the man who beat the piano, she informed her fans she would sing for them “Deare, if You Change,” followed by “Faire, Sweet, Cruel.” The singing did not improve but got noticeably worse as her voice creaked; then at one point broke under the strain of singing louder and longer than she was used to. She became emboldened as she went along. She began mincing about the stage, batting her fan at the audience, playing with them, rolling her eyes, tossing her head, doing everything but lift her skirts to show them her knees.
    It was too much provocation for the city bucks. They could not retain their seats. They edged closer and closer to the stage, creeping down the aisle, till at the last verse of “Faire, Sweet, Cruel” they had their elbows leaning on it. As she made her final bow, the taller of the two bounded up on the stage and followed her off, while the audience roared their appreciation of this piece of lechery. I waited no longer, but bolted out to find my way backstage. I wasn’t a minute too soon. He already had his arms around her, trying to pull her head into line for an attack. I thought she would be frightened, weeping, hysterical. There were rather wild sounds issuing from her lips, but as I got closer, I saw she was laughing, and saw as well that the lecher was tickling her. He was not such a young man, either. I doubt he was a day under thirty, but of course he was as drunk as a wheelbarrow. His face was flushed, his voice slurred, his legs unsteady, his manner positively insulting.
    "My little pocket Venus!” he crooned, as he tried to focus his rolling eyes on her face.
    “Come, at once!” I decreed, pulling her hand and trying to disengage her.
    "Not poaching, ma’am,” he assured me, with a foolish smile. "Want to buy her fair and square. Name your price.”
    I lifted my reticule and swotted the side of his head, causing him to fall back against the wall, where he shook himself to rights, trying to stand up straight. His condition made it impossible for him to follow when I pulled Perdita off into a room and slammed the door. I leaned my full weight against it, then lit into her,