ostelries. I
have passed just as pleasant hours in Rule's and Short's. You missed
something by not lingering in England, Sally."

"I know I did--pneumonia."

Mr. Faucitt shook his head reproachfully.

"You are prejudiced, my dear. You would have enjoyed London if you had
had the courage to brave its superficial gloom. Where did you spend your
holiday? Paris?"

"Part of the time. And the rest of the while I was down by the sea. It
was glorious. I don't think I would ever have come back if I hadn't had
to. But, of course, I wanted to see you all again. And I wanted to be at
the opening of Mr. Foster's play. Mrs. Meecher tells me you went to one
of the rehearsals."

"I attended a dog-fight which I was informed was a rehearsal," said Mr.
Faucitt severely. "There is no rehearsing nowadays."

"Oh dear! Was it as bad as all that?"

"The play is good. The play--I will go further--is excellent. It has
fat. But the acting..."

"Mrs. Meecher said you told her that Elsa was good."

"Our worthy hostess did not misreport me. Miss Doland has great
possibilities. She reminds me somewhat of Matilda Devine, under whose
banner I played a season at the Old Royalty in London many years ago.
She has the seeds of greatness in her, but she is wasted in the present
case on an insignificant part. There is only one part in the play. I
allude to the one murdered by Miss Mabel Hobson."

"Murdered!" Sally's heart sank. She had been afraid of this, and it
was no satisfaction to feel that she had warned Gerald. "Is she very
terrible?"

"She has the face of an angel and the histrionic ability of that curious
suet pudding which our estimable Mrs. Meecher is apt to give us on
Fridays. In my professional career I have seen many cases of what I may
term the Lady Friend in the role of star, but Miss Hobson eclipses them
all. I remember in the year '94 a certain scion of the plutocracy
took it into his head to present a female for whom he had conceived an
admiration in a part which would have taxed the resources of the ablest.
I was engaged in her support, and at the first rehearsal I recollect
saying to my dear old friend, Arthur Moseby--dead, alas, these many
years. An excellent juvenile, but, like so many good fellows, cursed
with a tendency to lift the elbow--I recollect saying to him 'Arthur,
dear boy, I give it two weeks.' 'Max,' was his reply, 'you are an
incurable optimist. One consecutive night, laddie, one consecutive
night.' We had,