epe hair. My turn arriving,
he seized me by the head, jabbed a wig upon me, and in less than a
couple of minutes I left his hands the orthodox peasant of the stage,
white of forehead and pink of cheek, with curly moustache and lips of
coral. Glancing into the glass, I could not help feeling pleased with
myself; a moustache, without doubt, suited me.

The chorus ladies, when I met them on the stage, were a revelation
to me. Paint and powder though I knew their appearance to consist
of chiefly, yet in that hot atmosphere of the theatre, under that
artificial glare, it seemed fit and fascinating. The close approximation
to so much bare flesh, its curious, subtle odour was almost
intoxicating. Dr. Johnson's excuse to Garrick for the rarity of his
visits to the theatre recurred to me with understanding.

"How do you like my costume?" asked the thin lady with the golden hair.

"I think you--" We were standing apart behind a piece of projecting
scenery. She laid her hand upon my mouth, laughing.

"How old are you?" she asked me.

"Isn't that a rude question?" I answered. "I don't ask your age.

"Mine," she replied, "entitles me to talk to you as I should to a boy of
my own--I had one once. Get out of this life if you can. It's bad for
a woman; it's worse still for a man. To you especially it will be
harmful."

"Why to me in particular?"

"Because you are an exceedingly foolish little boy," she answered, with
another laugh, "and are rather nice."

She slipped away and joined the others. The chorus was now entirely
assembled on the stage. The sound of the rapidly-filling house reached
us, softened through the thick baize curtain, a dull, continuous
droning, as of water pouring into some huge cistern. Suddenly there fell
upon our ears a startling crash; the overture had commenced. The stage
manager--more suggestive of a sheep-dog than ever, but lacking the calm
dignity, the self-possession born of conscious capability distinctive of
his prototype; a fussy, argumentative sheep-dog--rushed into the midst
of us and worried us into our positions, where the more experienced
continued to converse in whispers, the rest of us waiting nervously,
trying to remember our words. The chorus master, taking his stand with
his back to the proscenium, held his white-gloved hand in readiness. The
curtain rushed up, the house, a nightmare of white faces, appearing to
run towards us. The chorus-master's white-gloved hand flung upward. A
ro