_“If art be devoted to the increase of men’s happiness, to the redemption of the oppressed, or enlargement of our sympathies with each other, or to such presentment of new and old truth about ourselves and our relation to the world as may ennoble and fortify us in our sojourn here, or immediately, as with Dante, to the glory of God, it will be also great art.”--“Appreciations.”_ Walter Pater. |Mrs. Hereford who had readily divined Macneillie’s kindly intention in suggesting that they should see at any rate part of the rehearsal, wondered to herself whether his plan had been wise when about noon she found herself with Evereld and Bride in the dim dreariness of the theatre, which was quite empty save for a couple of charwomen who were scrubbing the floor of the pit. A civil attendant took them to the second row of the stalls where they had of course an excellent view of that inexpressibly dingy and forlorn looking place--a stage without scenery. Macneillie wearing a Glengarry cap was sitting on a chair with his back to them directing the dialogue and criticising in his quiet voice the shortcomings of Paulina and Emilia in the prison scene. At the back of the stage, some pacing to and fro, some sitting on the floor, were the rest of the company chatting comfortably together in low tones. “Do you think they are all Quakers?” observed Bride naughtily, “how queer it does look to see men indoors with their hats on, every variety too, bowlers, deerstalkers, sailors, and caps.” “Perhaps it’s draughty on the stage,” said Evereld. “I believe that tall dark girl must be Miss Myra Kay. She was only married last month. See Ralph is talking to her, that pretty girl in the blue and white blouse. She is Hermione I think.” “Don’t distract me,” said Bride. “Paulina is handling the stage baby very well, but it’s too small a doll, why Flo who was the tiniest of babies was more respectable than that. Ah, Antigonous lifts it from the floor. My good man you’ll break the child’s neck if you don’t support its head better. Talk about kites and ravens being instructed to nurse it, why he wants instruction himself. It’s as bad as seeing a young curate at a christening.” Evereld was obliged to laugh a little, and her eyes were still bright and mirthful when suddenly she perceived Ralph emerging through a side door and approaching them. “I thought you might like a book to follow with,” he said. “Are you getting thoroughly disillusioned? And shall you never be able to enjoy seeing a play again, now that you know how it’s done?” “Indeed I shall enjoy it much more,” she said. “Oh there is still a good deal I see, before you come in. Who is your Perdita?” “The fair-haired girl in blue serge, Miss Eva Carton. She is the daughter of that Major Carton who was killed in the Soudan.” “I remember you had him in your gallery of heroes. Is she a nice girl?”