To do them justice, the company worked like Trojans. It is true, some of their energies were misplaced, but they were all well-intentioned. Miss Fullar, for instance, as the duchess, gave the impression that the duke had married far beneath his social station. This impression was partially obliterated when the duke himself appeared in the second act, and gave place to doubts as to how the lady could ever have accepted his addresses. Mellish played a man-about-town, but had the misfortune to choose the wrong town, and never once came within the four-mile radius. Old Kitterson’s butler was sound—he had specialised in this line for many years—but the part caused him great disappointment, since there was nothing to do or say that was not strictly in the way of domestic service. Not once in any act did he have the opportunity to exclaim, “God! it’s Master Harry!” followed by a stumble forward, a hand-grip and a sobbing “Sir—sir!” He asked Eliphalet whether this popular effect could not have been introduced into the text, but Eliphalet turned a kindly but deaf ear to the appeal. Ronald Knight was one of the bright features, and took his place becomingly in the general scheme of things. One regrets to record that Mornice June was neither “great” nor “it.” She divided her rôle into small crumbs of individual effect. It was as though she had installed a mental switchboard, labelled with such tickets as Anger—Remorse—Sarcasm—Gaiety—Malice—(but never aforethought). Eliphalet Cardomay, although the part was wholly unsuited to his personality, gave the best and most illuminating performance of his whole career. It was totally unlike his usual traditional method, and precisely like it should have been. Quite naturally he seemed to know what to do and how to do it with the least possible effort. It was a queer caprice of fate that this simple method that he had viewed with a kind of disrespectful sour-grapes awe should suddenly have been made clear to him. He played the part, so to speak, with his hands in his pockets, and marvellous discoveries came his way. For instance, he discovered that when a man is saying to his wife, “You can go—you can get out,” he does not of necessity take a position in the centre of the stage and throw a fine gesture toward the door, but is more likely to scratch his own ear or perform some other minor diversion. That this mantle of naturalness should have descended upon him made him all the more sensitive to the shortcomings of the cast. It was cruel he should have learnt the value of simplicity too late to be able to teach it to others; for that was the bitter truth.