Tender whispers of velvet curtains’ rustle; figures of power and influence of dazzling Bristol as they leisurely glided in and out, refined and swan-like — tailored suits of expense and sumptuous dresses of silk and satin, skins of ivory adorned with opulent silver. However even all the comely charm of Bristol’ aristocrats combined could not do justice to the heir of the Crown they bent their lovely necks to, he a single star of diamonds brilliant in it’s peerless glory, of you who hung at his arm winsomely.

The break full of exchanged pleasantries and gallant conversations had slid smoothly to its end; Act IV awaited in the soft murmurs of cunning actors behind curtains of rich crimson and in the mystique gleam of polished wood of which the lush seats consisted. The gentle light faded; the luxury of plush darkness enveloped the sensual silence which settled upon the revelers of culture’s exposition.

“A virtuous play, truly,” Carvel demurred, silken in his effortless finery, although you suspected he was enjoying sitting next to you fairly more than the precious wonders of Shakespeare which presented themselves afore the pair of you seated in the highest — and the most lavish — part of the loge. “The masterism displayed is indeed remarkable.”