Behind the scenes of the Royal Parthenon Theatre, on a sultry evening in July. The first act of the play was over, and the carpenters were busy setting and preparing the scenes for the next act, while Hart, the stage manager, stood perspiring under his white hat with his back to the curtain. Figures in all kinds of costumes coming and going; female voices chattering, and male voices grumbling, made the confusion worse confounded, when Abrahams, the manager, sumptuously attired in a dress suit which might have been borrowed from a slop-shop in Hounds-ditch, came panting on to the stage. ‘Well,’ he asked, gazing at Hart with a bloodshot, questioning eye; ‘is it a go, will she do?’ The stage manager was too old a bird to commit himself so early in the evening, but he answered off-hand, with one eye on the carpenters, the other on his employer-- ‘I think she will; what do they say in front?’ ‘Say! They’re in ecstasies. Cakeford says she is the biggest thing he’s seen since Desclée. Why the devil doesn’t Brady act up to her? Well, it’ll depend now on her legs--if her legs are all right when she comes on as the boy.’ ‘That’s in Act III.?’ ‘Yes, in Act III. Hay says she’s too thin, but didn’t she have them in the garden scene? It was splendid. Well, I’m going to speak to her, and tell her the impression she has made. I think it’s all right.’ So saying, the manager pushed his way across the stage, and, winding in and out among set pieces, wings, loose pieces of canvas, and all the flotsam and jetsam of the theatre, made his way along a dirty passage till he came to a dingy door which stood ajar. Here he knocked, and, without waiting for an invitation, entered a largish chamber, hastily fitted up as an actress’s retiring room. Mirrors in various degrees of magnificent dinginess were hung on every side; a large gilded sofa, occasionally used on the stage in so-called ‘banqueting’ scenes, stood in a corner, chairs of divers gaudy patterns were scattered here and there, and in the centre was a white table with gilded legs. At the further end of the room were drawn crimson curtains, communicating with the more private portion of the dressing-room. ‘Hallo, White, here you are!’ exclaimed the manager to a solitary figure sitting on the gilded sofa, and smoking a cigar. The dramatic author (for it was he) rose and seized the manager’s hand. His own was trembling like a leaf, and his eyes were dim with moisture very like tears. ‘It’s all right, then?’ he said eagerly, almost pleadingly. ‘If she goes on as she has begun she’ll astonish the town. Ah, here she is.’