This was as inconvenient as it was offensive; for as she usually acted three times a week, and had, besides, to attend the rehearsals, she had but little time to spend unnecessarily. None were more capable, however, than she of keeping vulgar curiosity at a respectful distance. She gives us a comic account of an interview that took place between her and some of these intrusive individuals:— “One morning, though I had previously given orders not to be interrupted, my servant entered the room in a great hurry, saying, ‘Ma’am, I am very sorry to tell you there are some ladies below who say they must see you, and it is impossible for me to prevent it. I have told them over and over again that you are particularly engaged, but all in vain, and now, Ma’am, you may actually hear them on the stairs.’ I felt extremely indignant at such unparalleled impertinence, and, before the servant had done speaking to me, a tall, elegant, invalid-looking person presented herself (whom, I am afraid, I did not receive very graciously), and after her four more, in slow succession. A very awkward silence took place. Presently the first lady spoke. ‘You must think it strange,’ she said, ‘to see a person entirely unknown to you intrude in this manner upon your privacy; but, you must know, I am in a very delicate state of health, and my physician won’t let me go to the theatre to see you, so I am come to look at you here.’ She accordingly sat down to look, and I to be looked at, for a few painful moments, when she arose and apologised.” There is something awful that sends a cold shiver through us as the Tragic Muse tells us, “I was in no humour to overlook such insolence, and so let her depart in silence.” We can picture her contemptuous scorn under the circumstances. But it was not only in her own home she had to pay the penalty of fame; the theatre was mobbed outside every evening by a crowd anxious to see her walk across the pavement to her carriage; her dresses were copied, and the dressmakers to whom she went were importuned to make for all the fashionable ladies. Not only in these early days, but all her life, Mrs. Siddons kept a position unexampled for one of her profession. The house she occupied in Gore Street during her second season was, when she entertained, filled with all that was brilliant in literature and fashion; and later at Westbourne Cottage, and when she was in Pall Mall, Campbell tells us of rows of “coaches and chairs” standing outside her door. Invitations to most of the great houses in London poured in upon her, and she herself gives a comic account of the manner in which she was mobbed by her fashionable devotees at an assembly at the erratic Miss Monkton’s (afterwards Lady Cork), one of the “Blues” who made oddity of dress, appearance, and manner a study, and the running after “notorious folk” a science.