hort
quavers, please play the crotchet in three time." The orchestra respond
vigorously, but are stopped with a further request to "play the first
chord in the second bar as a dotted minim instead of a quaver," and the
Professor wanders about all over the house testing the effect of every
note.

The prologue goes off as smoothly as if it had been played for a hundred
nights. Miss Terry, clad in _Rosamond's_ magnificent robes, sits in the
stalls and watches the effect of the lights upon each group. Sometimes a
light is too blue, or too yellow, or too white, and in the first act the
rehearsal is stopped several times on this account. When Miss Terry is
on the stage, Mr. Irving watches the lights; when Mr. Irving is acting,
she studies each flash.

On the whole, there are wonderfully few details which require
modification. In the Bower scene, the light is at first too yellow, and
has to be altered. Practical experience proves that the bank up which
the lovers go is too slippery. A portion of it is cut away, thus
avoiding the probability of an awkward accident. Miss Ward trips on the
hem of her regal robe, and requests the _costumier_ to "take it up a
little." Mr. Irving, with unfailing memory, notices that some spearmen
are without their spears. But there is little to alter; at the second
full-dress rehearsal there will be less; and on the evening of the first
performance everything and everybody will have settled down into the
right place. Mr. Hawes Craven comes on once or twice to look at his
handiwork, and see that it has been properly "set." Then he walks away
with a brisk step to his well-earned rest.

Apart from the interest of the Bower scene, it is delightful to watch
Miss Terry and Master Byrne, who plays _Geoffrey_. When he comes "on" a
little before he is wanted, Miss Terry throws her arms round him and
kisses the pretty little fellow tenderly with, "There, run away for a
moment, darling; we're not quite ready for you." It is this sweet and
all-pervading womanliness of Miss Terry's which fascinates the onlooker.
Suddenly, from some dark recess, her voice floats out with an eminently
practical suggestion, a shrewd idea as to effect, some playful query. It
comes from every quarter of the theatre, and is marvellously thrilling,
with all the subtle fascination of what a poet-musician would call its
"tone-colour." When the curtain draws up for the Bower scene, and she
playfully chides her royal lover, it is more e