The momentous question of employment disposed of, we started for our summer holiday. It was Will's first idea to go to a village on Nantucket Island. Here a group of more or less successful actor-folk had established a summer colony. Some of them owned comfortable bungalows or were in the throes of buying them. After maturer deliberation Will concluded he wanted a change of "atmosphere." In other words he wanted to get away from "shop." A residential park in the Catskills was finally decided upon. The cottagers were for the most part staid Brooklyn families and Will felt in this environment he was reasonably sure of privacy. The delusion was a short-lived one. As we left the train and made our way to the 'bus which was to convey us to the Park I heard a whisper and titter from a bevy of pretty girls who had come to the railway station to watch the new arrivals. "There's Mr. Blank, the actor!" and Will understood that he was "discovered." Some of the girls climbed into the 'bus, others followed on foot. All giggled and made significant remarks. At the Inn it was immediately noised about that an actor was in "our midst." We became the cynosure of all eyes. Curious maiden ladies looked us over--at a respectful distance. Our most insignificant movements were under observation. Now, it is one thing to be stared at on the stage; quite another to have the minutest detail of one's private life under constant surveillance. Will, who had planned to live the simple life, which he had construed for himself as going unshaved for days at a time, wearing baggy trousers and flannel shirts all day and dining in that garb if it so pleased him, now found himself donning white ducks (the salvage of a former season's wardrobe), playing tennis, bridge, or lounging about the piazza answering endless inane questions concerning the stage and its people. If we went for a walk we were soon overtaken; if we planned a quiet day in the woods there was arranged an impromptu picnic-party to accompany us. To be sure the attention thrust upon us was of kindly intent, though Will declared the pleasure was theirs and more or less selfishly bestowed. An actor and his family at close range is a novelty apparently as much coveted as a man at a seaside after the week-end hejira back to town. One week of the cuisine at the Inn drove Will to dyspepsia tablets. Instead of fresh vegetables, home-grown fowl and the other concomitants of the country-board illusions, we were served with such delicacies as creamed cod-fish, canned salmon and johnny cake. I came to the conclusion that the housekeeping and servant problems had driven the Brooklynites to a state of submission where even the fare provided by the Inn was better than Bridget's dictation.