‘And I hope, sir’—this with an angry flash of her bright eyes—’that you are not ashamed of _me_.’ ‘Madam!’ ‘Then why did you not tell her that you were coming here?’ William Henry bit his lip, and was about to stammer something he knew not what, when fortunately there was a knock at the door. ‘Come in,’ said Mrs. Jordan. The knocking was continued very loudly, but the permission was not repeated. Mrs. Jordan began to laugh, and at every recurrence of the summons laughed more and more. Then the door was opened a very little way. ‘Are you sure that I may come in, Dorothy? Are you sure I don’t intrude?’ inquired a musical voice in accents of pretended anxiety. And then Mrs. Powell entered. ‘You are late,’ observed Mrs. Jordan reprovingly; ‘that is not like your usual habits.’ ‘I thought you might like to have a little time to yourselves, my dear,’ replied the other with great simplicity. ‘I am quite sorry to trouble you with business matters, Mr. Erin, but the fact is it’s pressing. I must have Edmunda altered; she is heavy in hand.’ ‘But, my dear madam, what has that to do with _me_?’ ‘With you? Why, everything; to whom else can I come? Kemble won’t listen to me; your father, a most respectable man no doubt, is quite impracticable, and only raves about the Immortal Bard.’ ‘But I cannot alter Shakespeare’s play, madam.’ ‘Why not? He’s dead, isn’t he? Besides, his plays have been often enough altered before. Garrick did it for one.’ ‘Perhaps, madam; but then I am not Garrick. I can no more alter a play than write one.’ ‘Upon my word, my dear,’ interposed Mrs. Jordan, ‘there is a good deal in what Mr. Erin says. I want to have things altered in my own part, but if, as he tells us——’ ‘Pooh! nonsense,’ broke in the other; ‘you have nothing to complain of in Flavia. She is in man’s clothes, which fit you to a nicety, and that is all you need care about.’ ‘If he takes my advice he won’t touch the play,’ said Mrs. Jordan, fairly trembling with rage. ‘There you see the Country Girl,’ said Mrs. Powell, pointing to her friend with a little hand that trembled too. ‘Her temper is only so long’ (she indicated the twentieth part of an inch). ‘Nobody can say that she has not a natural manner, or does not know how to blush.’ ‘Nobody can say of Mrs. Powell,’ retorted the other, ‘when she tries to blush, that her beauty is only skin deep.’ It was certainly a most terrible scene, and most heartily did William Henry wish himself back in Norfolk Street. At that very moment, however, when he expected to see them dig their nails into one another, both ladies burst out laughing. He began to think that either their rage or their laughter must needs be artificial, whereas, in fact, while they lasted they were both real enough. Mirth with them was the natural safety valve of all their passions, and a very excellent mechanical contrivance too.