So there was a good deal of chopping and changing, with vengeful feelings attendant thereupon; and at last, after almost all the privileged guests at the Cedars had made themselves hoarse in the endeavour to cultivate that bass voice and peculiar melodious gurgle so often heard on the stage, and so rarely heard off it; after innumerable tryings-on of velvet coats and cocked hats before cheval-glasses,--it transpired all at once that nobody wanted to play _Claude Melnotte_. The noblest hearts sank with a sickly terror before the thought of all Twickenham assembled in solemn conclave to listen to those long speeches with which the peasant husband endeavours to appease the natural anger of his bride. One by one the amateurs had made the awful discovery, that after all there is some touch of art, not to be learned in a day, even in the actor’s trade. One by one they had discovered that they lacked _physique_ for the leading character; and that, after three acts or so of blank verse, they were apt to become hoarse and roopy, and to break ignominiously from that melodious bass gurgle into a treble squeak. So it came about that there was no one to play _Claude_, and Miss Hillary clasped her hands in anguish, and demanded what was to become of her. All Twickenham and Hampton Court, Richmond and Ham, and all sorts of people from town invited to witness the “Lady of Lyons,” and no _Claude_ _Melnotte_! One of the government clerks, who fancied himself an embryo Buckstone, timidly suggested “Box and Cox” as a fitting substitute for the drama; but Miss Hillary turned from him with disdain. “Box and Cox!” she exclaimed, contemptuously; “why, my dresses are all ordered, and the white satin for the wedding-dress is to be five-and-twenty shillings a yard. I _must_ have some one for _Claude_.”