"Unless I set you dreaming, unless I suggest in this or that varying pose or expression, the whole world of women, I'm not a born actress. Training, study can make a good mechanical nightingale of me, a clever imitation of the real thing. That's all. But unless I have the chameleon quality of reflecting my part, the unerring understanding of any type of woman I may be called upon to represent, how can I be an actress? What does it profit me to give the public a carefully studied, intellectual representation of Portia or Nora, or Juliet or Candida, wide apart as the poles as they may be? I must not only apprehend them, I must be them in every fibre of my being, in every cell of my brain, in every beat of my heart, or I'm nothing. Unless I can convince you that Camille and I are one in emotion and view of life, and then obliterate that impression when I speak to you as Rosalind, why I'm not an actress, not the kind I care to be, anyway." "By Jove, my dear," cried Hepworth, "you need have no doubts on that score." He had not felt the thrill of such genuine enthusiasm for many a long day. He forgot the delicate and uncertain state of his marital affairs, forgot the censorious world, his ennui and doubt and regret. "I have a conviction," he said, "that Jim is going to win a lot on this new proposition of his. If he doesn't, it's all the same anyway. Why should you waste your youth and your genius in twentieth rate stock companies?" In spite of these cheering words, her head continued to droop. Her face had grown paler, and sad were the eyes she lifted to his. "But you asked me if I could act. You weren't sure. You didn't see me as Camille or Rosalind. You just saw Fuschia Fleming all the time." "Of course I did." His smile was most comfortingly reassuring. "But I saw Fuschia Fleming as Juliet and Portia and all the others. I merely asked you if you could act to see what you would say. No, no, my dear, your future is written so plainly that he who runs may read. No more one-night stands in dreary little towns, Miss Fuschia Fleming, but long engagements, crowded houses, enormous box-office receipts, wildly enthusiastic audiences. Can't you hear and see them? New York, London, Paris for you!" "Oh-h!" Fuschia was herself again. She exhaled rapture in an ecstatic sigh. She rose. It is impossible to sit in moments of such high exultation. She positively seemed to soar, to tread on clouds. It was growing late and chill. Almost every one had left the garden, only a few absorbed groups remained. Fuschia was an actress. Self-expression was a necessity to her. She rested her hand, a snowflake, gratefully on his arm, she floated against him, a thistledown, and before he knew it had lightly, enthusiastically, unconcernedly kissed him on the cheek. "You dear," she cried, "I'll repay you by showing you what I can do. To tread the forest of Arden in New York! Oh-h! But you are not going. No, no, no!"