Cassandra, who at any rate had a good memory, and did blindly what she was told to do, had just been through her part with faultless accuracy, and was a little hoarse after it, and no wonder. She had screamed, croaked, gurgled, gargled with pitiless precision, and on the last word she uttered, her voice, by an entirely unrehearsed effort, had cracked like a banjo string in a hot room. Mackay thought this particularly effective, and when he heard it was unpremeditated, urged her to practise it. He patted her on the back as she came off, and implied that if she acted like that in the performances, they would be very helpful to Æschylus’s reputation. The other two stage directors, it is true, had intermittently indulged in unkind laughter during the performance, but Cassandra had not heard them, and if she had, she would not have cared. At the end of the rehearsal the Babe stayed behind for a few moments to see about his dress, and passing across the stage again on his way out, found the three stage directors like the King, the Queen, and the Executioner in _Alice in Wonderland_ in hot discussion. Like Alice, he was instantly appealed to by all three, and asked to give his opinion about Cassandra. “Do you want me to say exactly what I think?” he asked. “By all means,” said Mackay, confidently. The Babe hesitated a moment. “I haven’t criticised Cassandra at all,” he said, “because I understood she was, so to speak, preserved. Also she is rather slow, and there would hardly be time for her to learn her part in the way I should suggest, and it would be a pity to confuse her mind farther. But if you ask what I think, she only reminds me of a strong young lady battling for reason against the clutches of delirium tremens.” The stage director who had seen so many French plays, smiled. “I said drunk,” he said. “Drunk, certainly, and also I think beset by the black-beetle visions,” said the Babe. “I daresay inspiration by Apollo may be like that, but I am afraid to an English audience it will suggest D. T.” “I thought she was splendid this morning,” said Mackay. “Well, I’ve told you what I think,” said the Babe. “What do you advise?” “If there is time, I should advise her to remodel herself a little. Not to choke so much; she spits at me like a llama, you know. Not to be so inspired. There is too much saliva in her madness, I think.” “My dear fellow,” broke in Mackay, “you miss the whole conception of the part. She is mad, stark, staring mad.” “I daresay I’m wrong,” said the Babe. There was an awkward pause, broken by Mackay who picked up his coat abruptly. “Very well,” said he. “Take her in hand yourselves. I must be going. We rehearse again at five, I think.” A moment’s silence followed and they all looked at each other with the air of detected conspirators. “Will you help us?” asked Dr. Propert at length of the Babe. “Do you mean, will I coach Cassandra?” “Yes.” The Babe hesitated.