Evereld was delighted to have her friend with her and thoroughly enjoyed her first experience of the Memorial week. Stratford had naturally very happy associations for her, and though the weather was not quite so perfect as it had been during their brief honeymoon, it did not affect the audiences which were always large and enthusiastic. One evening towards the end of the week Bride and Evereld were as usual setting off together for the theatre. There had been rain during the day but the evening was bright and clear so that there was nothing to prevent them from going by the river. “There is something so delicious in just stepping into the ‘Miranda’ and being rowed to the very door,” said Evereld as she took her place in that same boat in which only a little while before Macneillie and Christine had had their last interview. “It must be like this at Venice.” “Minus the Shaksperian associations and plus the smells,” said Bride with a smile. “Here come these vicious swans that look so picturesque and are really so bad tempered. One of them nearly made an end of Dick the other day, according to Bridget.” They glided on peacefully, watching the mellow sunset sky and the church spire and the stately trees surrounding it until the landlord rowed them up to the steps in the garden surrounding the theatre, and here as they climbed the grassy bank they were surprised to come across Macneillie walking to and fro with someone they did not recognise. Evereld wondered much how it came that he was deep in conversation, for it was nearly time for the performance to begin. He seemed somewhat relieved when he caught sight of her and introduced Mr. Barry Sterne, then telling her to see that the attendants gave him a good place, and arranging to meet him later on, he hurried to the Stage door, leaving Evereld and Bride to enjoy the talk of the new comer. “This looks something like Shakspere worship,” he remarked glancing round the perfectly built theatre which was already well filled. “I wish I had here with me the curious old fossil I met to-day in the train. There were a couple of Americans plying him with questions about Stratford; they set upon him the moment we left Euston, and ‘Wanted to know’ everything. The old gentleman couldn’t get in a word edgeways for some time, what with the tunnels and the sharp fire of questions. At last he remarked stiffly, ‘I have never read any of Shakspere’s plays myself, but I have always understood that he was a most immoral writer.’ You should have seen the faces of the two Yankees! It was as good as a play. And the old fellow was quite unaware that he had said anything extraordinary and blandly went on reading a religious newspaper!”