“I want this production to be memorable, and to that end everyone who appears in it must appear under circumstances most agreeable to the eye. In our profession it is not always possible to maintain one’s wardrobe at a state of perfection, and we are over-liable, perhaps, to run our suitings beyond the limits of appearance and durability. To encourage you all, then, to do justice to me and the play, I propose to pay an additional twenty-five per cent on your ordinary salaries. One more word, Gentlemen, and I have done. We are all tradesmen, with the trade at our finger-tips. Let us show that we, of the provincial theatres, can give, in appearance, intelligence and art, as good (if not better) measure as our brothers in the capital.” Then the rehearsal began. At the first reading Eliphalet was delighted. The play seemed to act itself. He experienced an odd sensation that there was little or nothing for the producer to do—that it rested with the company to commit to memory their lines and repeat them from appropriate positions upon the stage. He had not realised that the true human modern play is almost automatic, and that its crises arise from the general team-work of the company, and not by individual effects. “If it goes so well while they are holding their books, what will it be when I have shaped it up?” he thought. In the midst of these agreeable reflections he failed to observe a very obvious change had taken place in Mornice. Since persuading him to do this play and place her among the stars, she underwent a complete metamorphosis of manner. She adopted the worst characteristics of a leading lady. She gave the company good-morning each day with an air of great condescension. She trespassed into that forbidden Tom Tiddler’s Ground near the centre of the footlights reserved for producers and the managerial branch. She devoted less attention to her part than to criticisms of other people’s renderings. She would follow members of the company to dark parts of the stage and give advices that were neither desired nor of the smallest value. You who read these pages, do not be too severe in your judgments upon her. In a scarcely-formed mind certain mental conditions inevitably result from success or prominence upon the stage too soon. A name seen by its owner for the first time on the hoardings in three-inch block type acts as an intoxicant. Mercifully, the condition is transitory, and you will find that your really successful actor or actress is, as a rule, the jolliest and least sidey of individuals. It was her idea, supported by Ronald Knight, that the women’s costumes should come from Redfern’s—it was she who had seen the magic three-ply scenery at Wyndham’s, that does not vibrate when Mr. du Maurier goes forth and closes the door crisply behind him. To do the young people justice, they never for an instant thought they were doing otherwise than serving Eliphalet an excellent turn by their exuberant suggestions.