I made my way to the dressing-room--a long, low, wooden corridor, furnished from end to end with a wide shelf that served as common dressing-table, lighted by a dozen flaring gas-jets, wire-shielded. Here awaited us gentlemen of the chorus the wigmaker's assistant, whose duty it was to make us up. From one to another he ran, armed with his hare's foot, his box of paints and his bundle of crepe hair. My turn arriving, he seized me by the head, jabbed a wig upon me, and in less than a couple of minutes I left his hands the orthodox peasant of the stage, white of forehead and pink of cheek, with curly moustache and lips of coral. Glancing into the glass, I could not help feeling pleased with myself; a moustache, without doubt, suited me. The chorus ladies, when I met them on the stage, were a revelation to me. Paint and powder though I knew their appearance to consist of chiefly, yet in that hot atmosphere of the theatre, under that artificial glare, it seemed fit and fascinating. The close approximation to so much bare flesh, its curious, subtle odour was almost intoxicating. Dr. Johnson's excuse to Garrick for the rarity of his visits to the theatre recurred to me with understanding. “How do you like my costume?” asked the thin lady with the golden hair. “I think you--” We were standing apart behind a piece of projecting scenery. She laid her hand upon my mouth, laughing. “How old are you?” she asked me. “Isn't that a rude question?” I answered. “I don't ask your age. “Mine,” she replied, “entitles me to talk to you as I should to a boy of my own--I had one once. Get out of this life if you can. It's bad for a woman; it's worse still for a man. To you especially it will be harmful.” “Why to me in particular?” “Because you are an exceedingly foolish little boy,” she answered, with another laugh, “and are rather nice.”