“It would distress Jim to know that a woman who had once been his wife had sunk to such a condition.” As he passed through to the room at the back he smiled and thought: “How fortunate she did not come in here!” On the table was a large bowl of red and white roses, with the label and card still lying on the table. On the card was inscribed, “With love to Uncle Isaac. A.” The postmark on the label was a village in Sussex. LITTLE WHITE FROCK LITTLE WHITE FROCK When their careers are finished, the painter, the author, the architect, the sculptor, may point to this or that, and say, “Lo, this is my handiwork. Future generations shall rejoice in me.” But to the actor and the executive musician there is nothing left but—memories. Their permanence lies in the memories of the people who loved them. They cannot pass it on. Some one may say to you, “Ah, my boy, you should have heard Jean de Reszke,” or, “You should have seen Macready play that part.” And you are bound in all politeness to accept this verdict, but if you have not heard Jean de Reszke, nor seen Macready, it leaves no definite impression on you at all. Indeed, the actor is in worse case than the musician. For at the present time there are ingenious mechanical devices for caging the performance of a musician with varying degrees of success, but no mechanism could ever imprison the electric thrill of Joseph Jefferson or Henry Irving on their great nights of triumph. They are gone forever, cast away among the limbo of the myths. These melancholy reflections occurred to me on the first occasion when I visited Colin Brancker. I met the old chap first of all in the public library. He had a fine, distinguished head, with long, snow-white hair. He was slim, and in spite of a pronounced stoop, he carried himself with a certain distinction and alertness. I was a fairly regular visitor to the library, and I always found him devouring the magazines and newspapers which I particularly wanted to read myself. A misunderstanding about a copy of the _Saturday Review_ led to a few formal expressions of courtesy, on the following day to a casual nod, later on to a few words about the weather; then to a profound bow on his part and an inquiry after his health from me. Once we happened to be going out at the same time, and I walked to the end of the road with him. He interested me at once. His clear, precise diction, with its warm _timbre_ of restrained emotion, was very arresting. His sympathy about the merest trifles stirred you to the depths. If he said, “What a glorious day it is to-day!” it was not merely a conventional expression, but a kind of pæan of all the joy and ecstasy of spring life, sunshine and young lambs frisking in the green meadows.