Nor is this all. I get hopelessly entangled in the gigantic cobweb, which is one of the most wonderful scenic effects of the Fourth Act (the “Hen Pheasant’s Forest”) of _Chantecler_. Also I stumble over the great toadstools, fall heavily to the ground; and the gorgeous Hen Pheasant herself appearing, I feel humiliated and ashamed that so elegant and beautiful a creature should find me sprawling thus awkwardly on the turf. “What a nuisance these toadstools are,” I observe. “What are you doing in my forest? Leave it immediately,” commands the Hen Pheasant. But I have sprained my ankle; impossible to rise, even to move. And I burst into tears, and I implore the beautiful Pheasant to pardon me, and then a great bat gets caught in my hair, and—— Enough. Although my sufferings in these nightmares have been acute, I have one thing to be thankful for. Up to now I have not been attacked, as “Chantecler” is in the Third Act, by a fierce, bloodthirsty Prize Fighting Cock. Gracious goodness, this _Chantecler_! Rising unrefreshed from my troubled, restless sleep, I find, on the breakfast-table, letters from London, Birmingham, Manchester, which show that M. Edmond Rostand’s masterpiece has interested those cities as much as it has agitated and excited Paris. “MY DEAR BOY” (writes a frail, silver-haired and very charming old lady who gave me half-crowns in my schooldays),—“I live very much out of the world, as old people should do; but I confess to my curiosity having been aroused by a very peculiar play now being acted in Paris. I mean _Chantecler_, by a M. Edmond Rostand. It seems that the characters in it—if one can call them characters?—are animals. How very remarkable! I wonder how it can be done! Such things are seen, of course, in pantomimes (do you remember my taking you to Drury Lane Theatre many, many years ago to see _Puss-in-Boots_?). But the newspapers here say that this play is wonderfully natural, and full of true poetry and feeling. When you can spare half-an-hour, pray satisfy an old lady’s curiosity by giving her an account of the piece.” Then, with innumerable dashes, exclamation marks, and words underlined, the following appeal from fascinating, lovely, irresistible Miss Ethel Tempest:—