Akin to this under urban conditions is the expectant thrill with which we await the curtain’s rise upon the drama. Both are anticipatory; both mean youth’s impatience for the play. Each summer is heralded by vague anticipation of delight; each play which we wait to see for the first time hints of unknown pleasures. No one is jaded, no one really old, who is eager for a new joy. By this test there was a youthful audience gathered in the Stratford Theatre on a night of late November. Great things were said to be in store for that audience. This was the first night of the first play by Richard Latham, the poet. Those who had ways of knowing something of the play said that it was “great!” Those who had no clue to what they were to see said that Richard Latham never allowed anything to go forth over his name that was unworthy of his growing fame. Obviously, when it was not a matter of a poem in a magazine, but a play on the boards, he would be no less exacting with himself. Consequently, there was a literary and dramatic treat awaiting these first nighters. The orchestra was playing a Schumann overture to which it was competent; the Stratford, under a renowned management, was deficient in no department. In the stage box on the right sat ex-Governor Abercrombie; with him his magnificently handsome daughter in a golden gown and brilliant jewels; her husband-elect, his battered good looks still striking, and a dark young woman in white who made an excellent foil for the golden Helen, and who might have been George Lanbury’s sister. Miss Carrington was in the next box, decidedly the elegant old-type gentlewoman in shining silvery silk, point lace, and a few fine diamonds. With her was her nephew, Christopher Carrington, tall and straight, his face youthfully clear, radiating happiness. A girl as sweet as a flower in pale, rose-coloured crêpe, shrank somewhat into the shadow of Miss Carrington’s shoulder. It was hard for Anne to feel that Richard would not see her and lose something from his hour of triumph. But though Richard knew precisely where Anne sat, and had made Ted Wilberforce describe to him what she wore and how she looked, it did not disturb him. He always wanted Anne, never forgot that he was denied her; this was the established condition of his days; to-night the play must be the thing.