‘And then return to the stage when you are getting old,’ said the manager in dismay. ‘Well, the public are indulgent, I admit. A favourite is a favourite, whether old or young. There are old men and women now on the stage who ought to have retired years ago. They cannot act decently; with all their making up they are scarcely presentable. Their memory and their power are gone, or something very like it, still the public applaud. They do not understand what failures the poor creatures have become, and they praise them as liberally as when they were in their prime and could act. One cannot much wonder that under the circumstances the veteran actor lags superfluous on the stage.’ ‘But are they not afraid of the newspaper critics?’ Here the manager laughed. ‘Excuse me—that is too ridiculous. Who cares for theatrical criticism? Of course, we managers are civil to the critics, who give themselves amusing airs, and have a high opinion of their own abilities, and we get an advertisement gratuitously, which, of course, is an advantage. But a theatrical critic always swims with the stream—applauds what the public applaud, and blames what they blame. The public don’t care a rap for the theatrical critic. I often wonder newspaper editors take the trouble to print what they write. That no one reads it, except on a wet Sunday, they know as well as I. But you will come back to us soon?’ said the manager, with his most beseeching air. ‘No, I think not,’ said the lady. ‘The life is too exciting to be healthy, either for the heart or the head. It is all very well for a little while, but not for long. I have been happy on the stage, but I believe I shall be equally happy off. Let the younger ones have a chance. Every dog has his day.’ And the manager departed, thinking that the lady had made a great mistake, that perhaps she only needed a little more pressing. At any rate, he said, as he bowed himself out: ‘Madame, you shall hear from me again.’ ‘It is no use,’ was her reply.