“He won't have anything to say to me--thinks I'm an ass. I'm a simple sort of fellow--on the outside. But I'm not such a fool as I look.” “You don't think we are getting too much out of the groove?” I enquired. His opinion was that the more so the better. “Very well. Then, in the second act I disguise myself. I'll come on as an organ-grinder, sing a song in broken English, then as a policeman, or a young swell about town. Give me plenty of opportunity, that's the great thing--opportunity to be really funny, I mean. We don't want any of the old stale tricks.” I promised him my support. “Put a little pathos in it,” he added, “give me a scene where I can show them I've something else in me besides merely humour. We don't want to make them howl, but just to feel a little. Let's send them out of the theatre saying: 'Well, Charlie's often made me laugh, but I'm damned if I knew he could make me cry before!' See what I mean?” I told him I thought I did. The leading lady, meeting us on our return, requested, with pretty tone of authority, everybody else to go away and leave us. There were cries of “Naughty!” The leading lady, laughing girlishly, took me by the hand and ran away with me. “I want to talk to you,” said the leading lady, as soon as we had reached a secluded seat overlooking the river, “about my part in the new opera. Now, can't you give me something original? Do.” Her pleading was so pretty, there was nothing for it but to pledge compliance. “I am so tired of being the simple village maiden,” said the leading lady; “what I want is a part with some opportunity in it--a coquettish part. I can flirt,” assured me the leading lady, archly. “Try me.” I satisfied her of my perfect faith. “You might,” said the leading lady, “see your way to making the plot depend upon me. It always seems to me that the woman's part is never made enough of in comic opera. I am sure a comic opera built round a woman would be a really great success. Don't you agree with me, Mr. Kelver,” pouted the leading lady, laying her pretty hand on mine. “We are much more interesting than the men--now, aren't we?” Personally, as I told her, I agreed with her. The tenor, sipping tea with me on the balcony, beckoned me aside. “About this new opera,” said the tenor; “doesn't it seem to you the time has come to make more of the story--that the public might prefer a little more human interest and a little less clowning?” I admitted that a good plot was essential. “It seems to me,” said the tenor, “that if you could write an opera round an interesting love story, you would score a success. Of course, let there be plenty of humour, but reduce it to its proper place. As a support, it is excellent; when it is made the entire structure, it is apt to be tiresome--at least, that is my view.” I replied with sincerity that there seemed to me much truth in what he said.