Her clear enunciation, magnificent diction, and great repose are indeed a contrast to the modern young woman of the stage, who speaks so badly that one cannot hear what she says, and has often not learnt even the first rules of walking gracefully. After the play I went behind the scenes, as arranged. Benson was there standing at Miss Ward’s door thanking her for her performance. What a splendid athlete he is in appearance, and though I am not particularly fond of his performance, _Coriolanus_ is by far his best. I congratulated him upon it, and his simplicity and almost shyness were amusing. “But I am so much below my ideal of the part,” he said; “although it is strengthening and broadening, I cannot even now get it,” and then, turning to Miss Ward, added, “However, our ‘Volumnia’ is all she should be.” There was Miss Ward, dressed ready to return home, smiling cheerfully and not in the least tired. As we were driving back to my house, she told me, in answer to a friendly enquiry, what her day had been. “I went for a long walk this morning, had my lunch at a quarter to one, got to the theatre at two, began at two-thirty, and, as you know, did not end till five-thirty.” “I hope you had some tea,” I said. “Tea, my dear! Certainly not. I shall have a glass of hot milk at six, when I get in, and then my dinner as usual, a little later.” Over seventy years of age, she thus had played a strong rôle for three hours, yet did not even need to be refreshed with a cup of tea. Geneviève Ward certainly is a great woman. The three greatest English actresses I have ever seen are Ellen Terry, Geneviève Ward, and Mrs. Kendal. The latter two are among the most brilliant women and most charming conversationalists I know—outside their stage life I mean. One February day in 1909, Mrs. Kendal walked up Portland Place to fetch me _en route_ for luncheon with Geneviève Ward. “Why have you suddenly left the stage like this?” I asked in banter. In a serious voice she replied: “Because we want no farewells. I went on the stage when I was four, and no one knew I was there. I go off the stage when I am fifty-five, and I do not see why people should be asked to contribute to my well-advertised disappearance as to a charity. I’ve worked hard for fifty years, and have retired to enjoy myself while I can. Actors have long-drawn-out ‘farewells’ lasting for two or three years. I don’t wish to do likewise. We’ve worked hard, and we’ve been thrifty and saved, and now we can retire from a kindly public—as their friends, I hope. I don’t want to write to the papers, or make speeches, or call myself their ‘humble servant.’ I’ve given them of my best, and they’ve paid me for it, as they pay for their hats and gloves. No gratuities, nothing more than I have rightly earned. Don’t you think I’m right?” “Well, it is certainly more dignified, but we should have liked to give you a farewell cheer.” Then, reverting to others, I asked why Irving was so poor.