hang about the rocky island jutting up from the sea. All this
he talked of, while the sun shone through his long yellow hair and
revealed its streaks of silver.... At last he stood in the sunlight,
with his arms outstretched, as though he were evoking his vision from
the heavens to take shape upon the stage.

Clara, watching him, perceived that he was a born actor. He trod the
stage with loving feet, and with a movement entirely different from
that which he used in the street or among people who were not of the
theatre. This surely was the real Charles. The light of the sun upon
him was inappropriate. It mocked him and inexorably revealed the fact
that he was no longer young. The scenery door was closed and the
discordance ceased, but more clearly than ever was Charles revealed as
an actor treading easily and affectionately his native elevation. The
influence of the place affected even himself, and after he had
constructed his imaginary scenery round himself, he said,--

'One of the first parts I ever played was Ferdinand staggering beneath
logs of wood.'

He assumed an imaginary log and recited,--

'This my mean task would be
As heavy to me as 'tis odious; but
The mistress which I serve quickens what's dead
And makes my labours pleasures: Oh, she is
Ten times more gentle than her father's crabbed;
And he's composed of harshness. I must remove
Some thousands of these logs and pile them up,
Upon a sore injunction: my sweet mistress
Weeps when she sees me work; and says such baseness
Had never like executor.

He produced the illusion of youth, and his voice was so entrancing that
Clara, like Miranda, wept to see him.... He threw off his part with a
great shout, rushed at her and caught her up in a hug.

'Chicken,' he said, 'don't let us be silly any more. We have won
through. Here we are in the theatre. We've conquered the stage, and
soon all those seats out there will be full of eager people saying,
"Who are these wonders? Can it be? Surely they are none other than
Charles and Clara Mann?"'

'Day,' said she.

He stamped his foot impatiently.

'What's in a name? Day, if you like. Artists can and must do as they
please. This is our real life, here where we make beauty. The rest is
for city clerks and stockbrokers who can't trust themselves to behave
decently unless they have a perfect net of rules from which they cannot
escape.'

'I don't want to talk about