It must be confessed, after the generous and lurid fare that had been accorded them, the audience (not excepting the Hepplewhite Shakespeare Society) failed to look forward with any pleasurable anticipation to this example of the Bard’s genius. Very naturally they felt aggrieved that William Shakespeare should have been dragged into an afternoon’s entertainment, when the time allotted him might have been more profitably spent with the work of some lesser littérateur. Consequently their attitude was disposed to be hostile. Wonderful to relate, Eunice Terry felt no apprehensions. She was quite certain of herself. She had spent long hours “getting” her “silly old lines,” and she had “got” them. True, she thought the part was a “dud and a stuma,” and she didn’t pretend to understand half the things she had to say—still, that was the way with Shakespeare, and she had a “perfect duck of a make-up.” Violet O’Neal had helped her with it, and never were lily tints and rose more happily blended. She was as sure of her success as though already her picture postcards had gone into the hundredth edition. Before going on, she approached Mr. Cardomay, sombre and Semitic as the Merchant, and asked, more for something to say than from any doubt on the point, “D’you think I shall be all right?” and he gravely replied, “You will do everything I expect of you.” It would not be fair to follow the performance through its disastrous stages of incompetence and “dry-up” to the abrupt and unfinished climax. The Shakespearean Society were chiefly responsible for the disturbance. From the moment of Eunice’s first entrance they felt an insult had been placed upon their intelligence, an insult that called for immediate reprisals. The Quality of Mercy is all very well, but when you are told about it by someone who evidently hasn’t the slightest idea what she is talking about, the most lenient is apt to change his mercy to a Quality of Justice. To borrow a phrase from the parlance of “the road,” Eunice Terry asked for, and got, “the Bird.” At first she didn’t understand, and floundered on hopelessly through a quagmire of unbalanced lines. Then, to an accompaniment of shouts and whistles, the truth dawned on her, and her little lower lip shot out and began to work spasmodically. Seeing which, Henry Churchill got up and “engaged” the gallery. “You cowards!” he cried. And Freddie Manning from the prompt corner took advantage of the tumult to shout: “Shall I ring down, Guv’nor?” “No,” said Eliphalet, but he had to shut his eyes to hide the grief on the little face before him. “Go on, Miss Terry.” “I—I can’t.” “You must.” “I can’t—I’ve forgotten—I don’t want to——” “Rotten!” shouted the house with one accord. “Rotten!” Then Eunice burst into tears and rushed from the stage, and simultaneously Henry Churchill fought his way out of the stalls. “I am very sorry, ladies and gentlemen,” said Eliphalet Cardomay, and the curtain fell.