“Very interesting, indeed,” said Mrs. Byron, throwing it aside after one glance at it, and turning over some later prints, while Lydia, amused, looked on in silence. “Ah,” she said, presently, “here is something that will suit me exactly. I shall not trouble to go through the rest of your collection, thank you. They must do that robe for me in violet silk. What is your opinion of it, Miss Carew? I have noticed, from one or two trifles, that your taste is exquisite.” “For what character do you intend the dress?” “Constance, in ‘King John.’” “But silk was not made in western Europe until three hundred years after Constance’s death. And that drawing is a sketch of Marie de Medicis by Rubens.” “Never mind,” said Mrs. Byron, smoothly. “What does a dress three hundred years out of date matter when the woman inside it is seven hundred years out? What can be a greater anachronism than the death of Prince Arthur three months hence on the stage of the Panopticon Theatre? I am an artist giving life to a character in romance, I suppose; certainly not a grown-up child playing at being somebody out of Mrs. Markham’s history of England. I wear whatever becomes me. I cannot act when I feel dowdy.” “But what will the manager say?” “I doubt if he will say anything. He will hardly venture to press on me anything copied from that old parchment. As he will wear a suit of armor obviously made the other day in Birmingham, why--!” Mrs. Byron shrugged her shoulders, and did not take sufficient interest in the manager’s opinion to finish her sentence. “After all, Shakespeare concerned himself very little about such matters,” said Lydia, conversationally. “No doubt. I seldom read him.” “Is this part of Lady Constance a favorite one of yours?” “Troublesome, my dear,” said Mrs. Byron, absently. “The men look ridiculous in it; and it does not draw.” “No doubt,” said Lydia, watching her face. “But I spoke rather of your personal feeling towards the character. Do you, for instance, like portraying maternal tenderness on the stage?” “Maternal tenderness,” said Mrs. Byron with sudden nobleness, “is far too sacred a thing to be mimicked. Have you any children?” “No,” said Lydia, demurely. “I am not married.” “Of course not. You should get married. Maternity is a liberal education in itself.” “Do you think that it suits every woman?”