sodes lacking in all plausibility. This particular
actress is generally happy when she can select for herself a character
that is beloved by all the masculine members of the cast. Apparently,
she "sees" herself in this role. She likes to appear as the
personification of all the virtues, self-sacrificing and otherwise,
and this idiosyncrasy is, of course, frequently fatal to sustained
interest. We do not care for these sensational paragons.

In "Mademoiselle Marni" Miss Bingham played the part of a very
beautiful French actress, of whom everybody said: "Oh, what a woman!"
(Perhaps the audience also echoed that phrase, but with quite a
different significance.) She was exquisitely in love with _Comte Raoul
de Saverne_, who was engaged to another, and was "ordered" away from
her by the father of that other. This parent was a very wicked baron,
and just as _Mlle. Marni_ in an ecstasy of rage was about to strike
him, somebody called out: "Do not hit him; he is your father."

We discovered that _Mlle. Marni_ was the wicked baron's illegitimate
child. As he had been saying extremely pretty things to her--for she
was so bee-yoo-ti-ful!--you will readily perceive that fastidious
people might find this "situation" what some critics love to call
"unpleasant." Wicked barons, viewed in the process of admiring their
own daughters, are not exactly long-felt wants upon the New York
stage. However, this episode was scarcely offensive, for it was so
exuberantly silly that nobody could take it seriously.

Later on, _Mlle. Marni_ gambled on the stock exchange, and made two
million dollars in a few minutes, so that she could get even with the
wicked baron, and force him to recall _Raoul_. In this act the actress
wore black velvet, and looked every inch French--Bleecker Street
French. It was the "big" scene, and was considered very strenuous by
those acting in it. To those in the audience, it merely accentuated
the cheap vulgarity of the play, that had no redeeming point, either
literary or dramatic. It was, in fact, a forlorn hope.

Perhaps if Miss Amelia Bingham would not select her own plays, she
would fare better. She is by no means lacking in histrionic ability.
She has done many good things in her day. But the temptation of the
self-made "star" to see nothing but her own part in the drama that she
buys, is very acute. A satisfactory _ensemble_, a logical story, a set
of plausible characters and a motive are all overlooked. Her own
"