Drake explained that the lady playing Beatrice was a great favourite, and that the applause of the audience had been of the nature of a welcome to a welcome guest, as much as to say they had liked her before, and were glad to see her again. Glory thought that was beautiful, and, looking at the gleaming eyes that shone out of the darkness, she said: “How lovely to be an actress!” Then she turned back to the stage, where all was bright and brilliant, and said, “What a lovely frock, too!” “Only a stage costume, my dear,” said Polly. “And what beautiful diamonds!” “Paste,” said Lord Robert, “Hush!” said Drake; and then Benedick entered, and the audience received him with great cheering. “Irving,” whispered Drake; and Glory looked more perplexed than before and said: “But you told me it was Mr. Irving's theatre, and I thought it would have been his place to welcome----” The vision of Benedick clapping his hands at his own entrance set Lord Robert laughing in his cold way: but Drake said, “Be quiet, Robert!” Glory, like a child, had ears for no conversation except her own, and she was immersed in the play in a moment. The merry war of Beatrice and Benedick had begun, and as she watched it her face grew grave. “Now, that's very foolish of her,” she said; “and if, as you say, she's a great actress, she shouldn't do such things. To talk like that to a man is to let everybody see that she likes him better than anybody else, though she's trying her best to hide it. The silly girl--he'll find her out!” But the curtain had gone down on the first act, the lights had suddenly gone up, and her companions were laughing at her. Then she laughed also. “Of course, it's only a play,” she said largely, “and I know all about plays and about acting, and I can act myself, too.” “I'm sure you can,” said Polly, lifting her lip. But Glory took no notice. Throughout the second act she put on the same airs of knowledge, watching the masked ball intently, but never once uttering a laugh and hardly ever smiling. The light, the colour, the dresses, the gay young faces enchanted her; but she struggled to console herself. It was only her body that was up there, leaning over the front of the box with lips twitching and eyes gleaming; her soul was down on the stage, clad in a lovely gown, and carrying a mask and laughing and joking with Benedick; but she held herself in, and when the curtain fell she began to talk of the acting. She was still of the opinion that Leonato was excellent for such an elderly gentleman, and when Polly praised Claudio she agreed that he was good too. “But Benedick is my boy for all,” she said. In some way she had identified herself with Beatrice, and hardly ever spoke of her.