“Anything that is true must be true to local conditions, to begin with. The only question is, is it true to human nature? What puzzled me in this American play was its raising the old question of nature and art. You've seen Coquelin? Well, that is acting, as artificial as a sonnet, the perfection of training, skill in an art. You never doubt that he is performing in a play for the entertainment of an audience. You have the same enjoyment of it that you have of a picture--a picture, I mean, full of character and sentiment, not a photograph. But I don't think of Denman Thompson as an actor trained to perfection in a dramatic school, but as a New Hampshire farmer. I don't admire his skill; I admire him. There is plenty that is artificial, vulgarly conventional, in his play, plenty of imitation of the rustic that shows it is imitation, but he is the natural man. If he is a stage illusion, he does not seem so to me.” “Probably to an American audience only he does not,” Mr. Lyon remarked. “Well, that is getting to be a tolerably large audience.” “I doubt if you will change the laws of art,” said Mr. Lyon, rising to go. “We shall hope to see you again at our house,” my wife said. “You are very good. I should like it; but my time is running out.” “If you cannot come, you may leave your adieus with Miss Debree, who is staying some time in the city,” my wife said, evidently to Margaret's annoyance. But she could do no less than give him her city address, though the information was not accompanied by any invitation in her manner.