“But they are your fellow artists,” said Evereld lifting her clear eyes to his, “why do you call them ‘these stage people’ as though they were a different sort of race?” “Well you know,” said the Honorable Bertie, “of course you know it’s not quite--not exactly--the same thing. Your husband is of a good family, I am quite aware of that, but many of the others, why, you know, they are just nobodies.” Evereld’s mouth twitched as she thought how Macneillie would have taken off this characteristic little speech. “But art knows nothing of rank,” she said gently. “Who cares about the parentage of Raphael, or Dante, or David Garrick, or Paganini?” The earl’s son looked somewhat blank. “That’s all very well theoretically,” he said. “But in practice it’s abominable. I believe there’s a conspiracy against me. They are jealous of me and don’t mean to let me have a fair chance.” “Oh, Mr. Macneillie is so just and fair to all, that could never be,” said Evereld warmly. “The manager is the worst of them,” said the Honorable Bertie, deep gloom settling on his brow. “I hate his way at rehearsal of making a fool of one before all the rest of the company.” “But you can’t have a rehearsal all to yourself,” said Evereld laughing. “You should hear what they say of other managers at rehearsal, who swear and rave and storm at the actors.” “I shouldn’t mind that half as much,” said Mr. Vane-Ffoulkes. “It’s just that cool persistent patience, and that insufferable air of dignity he puts on that I can’t stand. What right has Macneillie to authority and dignity and all that sort of thing? Why I believe he’s only the son of a highland crofter.” “I don’t think you’ll find your ancestors any good in art life,” said Evereld. “It is what you can do as an actor that matters, and as long as you feel yourself a different sort of flesh and blood how can you expect them to like you?” The Honorable Bertie was not used to such straight talking but, to do him justice, he took it in very good part, and always spoke of Mrs. Ralph Denmead with respect, though he still cordially hated her husband. Ralph unfortunately occupied the exact position which he desired, he always coveted the Juvenile Lead, and Macneillie cruelly refused to give him anything but the smallest and most insignificant parts until he improved. “How can I make anything out of such a character as this?” he grumbled, “Why I have only a dozen sentences in the whole play.” “You can make it precisely what the author intended it to be,” said the Manager. “It is the greatest mistake in the world to judge a part by its length. You might make much of that character if only you would take the trouble. But it’s always the way, no heart is put into the work unless the part is a showy one; you go through it each night like a stick.”