(INTERVIEWER _is busy for the next ten minutes in noting small "asides," thrown in between whiffs of cigarette: "£250 a year as medical officer." "In several engagements." "Did fairly well." "Have a cigarette?" "Appeared with Mrs. John Wood in New York." "Six weeks." "£4 12s. a week." "Dismissed for incompetency." "Came home." "Met amateur friends again." "Engaged at Royalty." "£4 a week." "Leading light comedy and stage management." "Offer from Miss Herbert to go to St. James's. Went. Miss Herbert, Irving, Mr. and Mrs. Frank Mathews, Stoyle, Ada Cavendish there, and--Oh! that first night."_) THE MODERN MATHEWS _crosses to table_ L., _and taking up an edition de luxe of a commemorative volume of the Clover Club, reads the story which he told ten years ago of that first night. His back is to the fireplace_ (CENTRE), _the book in one hand leaves the other free for action. He reads and remembers._ "The piece was an adaptation of Ouida's 'Idalia.' I was playing the hero, _Hugh Stoneleigh_; a young actor named Charles was _Victor Vane_; Miss Herbert (long since retired) was _Idalia_; and Henry Irving was the villain of the play, _Count Falcon_. In those days, by-the-bye, managers would insist upon casting me for the virtuous heroes, and Irving for the vicious ones, although our proclivities in no way justified the selection. But what a charming villain Irving was: the only actor I have ever seen who has been able to make villainy on the stage appear as it should appear--lovable. But to resume: The opening scene was a rocky defile, in which I was suddenly attacked by Irving, and left for dead. The stage-manager had outshone himself in the production of a grandly impressive scene, in which the demands of realism were observed by the introduction of a natural waterfall: descending from the flies at the side, passing under a massive bridge, and rushing wildly and obliquely across the stage. It was certainly a gorgeous scene; an inspiring one, bound to elicit uproarious approval. Well, on the first night it did, and during the rest of the evening that waterfall was never forgotten. I told you it was supposed to dash under a massive bridge (which, by-the-bye, sloped down towards the footlights, in full view of the audience); but stage-managers propose, and waterfalls dispose. It was its first appearance on any stage, and, like most beginners, it wanted to do too much: it not only dashed under the bridge, but it trickled over the bridge; and, on its passage across the stage, it oozed from its proper channel, in several independent little rivulets, down towards the footlights. Wherever that inexperienced water went, it left the stage slippery. Thunders of applause greeted the enthusiastic débutant, and all the time the traitor was preparing for the annihilation of his brother artists. Gracefully down the bridge came F. Charles. He touched the slippery part of the bridge, threw his arms out wildly, away went his cloak into