"You speak as if you had seen her," he said, amused at the way she talked of "that woman." "Oh I know all about her--I know all about all the great actors. But that won't prevent me from speaking divine English." "You must learn lots of verse; you must repeat it to me," Sherringham went on. "You must break yourself in till you can say anything. You must learn passages of Milton, passages of Wordsworth." "Did _they_ write plays?" "Oh it isn't only a matter of plays! You can't speak a part properly till you can speak everything else, anything that comes up, especially in proportion as it's difficult. That gives you authority." "Oh yes, I'm going in for authority. There's more chance in English," the girl added in the next breath. "There are not so many others--the terrible competition. There are so many here--not that I'm afraid," she chattered on. "But we've got America and they haven't. America's a great place." "You talk like a theatrical agent. They're lucky not to have it as we have it. Some of them do go, and it ruins them." "Why, it fills their pockets!" Miriam cried. "Yes, but see what they pay. It's the death of an actor to play to big populations that don't understand his language. It's nothing then but the _gros moyens_; all his delicacy perishes. However, they'll understand _you_." "Perhaps I shall be too affected," she said. "You won't be more so than Garrick or Mrs. Siddons or John Kemble or Edmund Kean. They understood Edmund Kean. All reflexion is affectation, and all acting's reflexion." "I don't know--mine's instinct," Miriam contended. "My dear young lady, you talk of 'yours'; but don't be offended if I tell you that yours doesn't exist. Some day it will--if the thing comes off. Madame Carre's does, because she has reflected. The talent, the desire, the energy are an instinct; but by the time these things become a performance they're an instinct put in its place." "Madame Carre's very philosophic. I shall never be like her." "Of course you won't--you'll be original. But you'll have your own ideas." "I daresay I shall have a good many of yours"--and she smiled at him across the table. They sat a moment looking at each other. "Don't go in for coquetry," Peter then said. "It's a waste of time." "Well, that's civil!" the girl cried. "Oh I don't mean for me, I mean for yourself I want you to be such good faith. I'm bound to give you stiff advice. You don't strike me as flirtatious and that sort of thing, and it's much in your favour." "In my favour?" "It does save time." "Perhaps it saves too much. Don't you think the artist ought to have passions?" Peter had a pause; he thought an examination of this issue premature. "Flirtations are not passions," he replied. "No, you're simple--at least I suspect you are; for of course with a woman one would be clever to know."