“I think,” said the stranger, “that we shall soon have to say eggs and Shakespeare instead of eggs and Bacon.” This remark caused a slight shudder to pass through all the guests, and Mrs. Bergmann felt sorry that she had not taken decisive measures to prevent the stranger’s intrusion. “Shakespeare wrote his own plays,” said Sciarra, “and I don’t know if he knew law, but he knew _le coeur de la femme_. Cleopatra bids her slave find out the colour of Octavia’s hair; that is just what my wife, my Angelica, would do if I were to marry some one in London while she was at Rome.” “Mr. Gladstone used to say,” broke in Lockton, “that Dante was inferior to Shakespeare, because he was too great an optimist.” “Dante was not an optimist,” said Sciarra, “about the future life of politicians. But I think they were both of them pessimists about man and both optimists about God.” “Shakespeare,” began Blenheim; but he was interrupted by Mrs. Duncan who cried out:-- “I wish he were alive now and would write me a part, a real woman’s part. The women have so little to do in Shakespeare’s plays. There’s Juliet; but one can’t play Juliet till one’s forty, and then one’s too old to look fourteen. There’s Lady Macbeth; but she’s got nothing to do except walk in her sleep and say, ‘Out, damned spot!’ There were not actresses in his days, and of course it was no use writing a woman’s part for a boy.” “You should have been born in France,” said Faubourg, “Racine’s women are created for you to play.” “Ah! you’ve got Sarah,” said Mrs. Duncan, “you don’t want anyone else.” “I think Racine’s boring,” said Mrs. Lockton, “he’s so artificial.” “Oh! don’t say that,” said Giles, “Racine is the most exquisite of poets, so sensitive, so acute, and so harmonious.” “I like Rostand better,” said Mrs. Lockton. “Rostand!” exclaimed Miss Tring, in disgust, “he writes such bad verses--du caoutchouc--he’s so vulgar.” “It is true,” said Willmott, “he’s an amateur. He has never written professionally for his bread but only for his pleasure.” “But in that sense,” said Giles, “God is an amateur.” “I confess,” said Peebles, “that I cannot appreciate French poetry. I can read Rousseau with pleasure, and Bossuet; but I cannot admire Corneille and Racine.” “Everybody writes plays now,” said Faubourg, with a sigh. “I have never written a play,” said Lord Pantry. “Nor I,” said Lockton. “But nearly everyone at this table has,” said Faubourg. “Mrs. Baldwin has written ‘Matilda,’ Mr. Giles has written a tragedy called ‘Queen Swaflod,’ I wrote a play in my youth, my ‘Le Menetrier de Parme’; I’m sure Corporal has written a play. Count Sciarra must have written several; have you ever written a play?” he said, turning to his neighbour, the stranger. “Yes,” answered the stranger, “I once wrote a play called ‘Hamlet.’” “You were courageous with such an original before you,” said Faubourg, severely.