The Author. I wish they would be a little quicker. I've a good mind to go behind myself and hurry them up. The audience are beginning to get impatient.

Her Companion. But that shows how interested they are, doesn't it, dear?

Author. I think it ought to interest them, but I did expect they would have shown a little more enthusiasm over that situation in the last tableau—they're rather a cold audience!

Comp. It's above their heads, dear, that's where it is—plays are such rubbish nowadays, people don't appreciate a really great drama just at first. I do hope Mr. IRVING, Mr. HARE and Mr. BEERBOHM TREE will come in—I'm sure they'll be only too anxious to secure it!

Author. I don't know that I should care for it to come out at the Lyceum, but of course if the terms were very—oh, they're beginning at last! I hope this light comedy scene will go well. (Curtain rises: Comic dialogue—nothing whatever to do with the plot—between a Footman and a Matinée Maidservant in short sleeves, a lace tucker, and a diamond necklace; depression of audience. Serious characters enter and tell one another long and irrelevant stories, all about nothing. When the auditor remarks, "Your story is indeed a sad one—but go on," a shudder goes through the house, which becomes a groan ten minutes later when the listener says: "You have told me your history—now hear mine!" He tells it; it proves, if possible, duller and more irrelevant than the other man's. A love-scene follows, characterised by all the sparkle and brilliancy of "Temperance Champagne"; the House witnesses the fall of the Curtain with apathy.)

Author. That love-scene was perfectly ruined by the acting! She ought to have turned her head aside when he said, "Dash the teapot!" but she never did, and he left out all that about dreaming of her when he was ill with measles in Mashonaland! I wish they wouldn't have such long waits, though. We timed the piece at rehearsal, and, with the cuts I made, it only played about four hours; but I'm afraid it will take longer than that to-day.

Comp. I don't care how long it is—it's so beautifully written!

Author. Well, I put my whole soul into it, you know; but it's not till this next Act that I show my full power. [Curtain rises on a drawing-room, furnished with dingy wrecks from the property-room—the home of JASPER, the Villain, who is about to give an evening party. Enter a hooded crone. "Sir JASPER, I have a secret of importance, which can only be revealed to your private ear!" (Shivers of apprehension amongst the audience.) Sir J. "Certainly, go into yonder apartment, and await me there." (Sigh of relief from spectators.) A Footman. "Sir, the guests wait!" Sir J. (with lordly ease). "Bid them enter!" (They troop in unannounced and sit down against the wall, entertaining one another in dumb-show.) Footman (re-entering). "Sir, a roughly-dressed stranger, who says he knew you in Norway, under an alias, requests a few words." Sir J. "Confusion!—one of my former accomplices in crime—my guests must not be present at this interview!" (To Guests.) "Ladies and Gentlemen, will you step into the adjoining room for a few minutes, and examine my collection of war-weapons?" (Guests retire, with amiable anticipations of enjoyment. The Stranger enters, and tells another long story.) "I smile still," he concludes—"but even a dead man's skull will smile. Allow me then the privileges of death!" (At this an irreverent Pittite suddenly guffaws, and the Audience from that moment perceives that the piece possesses a humorous side. The Stranger goes; the Guests return. Re-enter Footman). "Sir, an elderly man, who was acquainted with your family years ago, insists on seeing you, and will take no denial!" Villain (with presence of mind—to Guests.) "Ladies and Gentlemen, will you step into the neighbouring apartment, and join the dancers?" (The Guests obey. The Elderly Man enters, and denounces JASPER, who mendaciously declares that he is his own second cousin JOSEPH; whereupon the visitor turns down his coat-collar, and takes off a false beard.) "Do you know me now, JASPER SHOPPUN?" he cries. "I am JOSEPH—your second cousin!"... "What, ho, Sir Insolence!" the Villain retorts. "And so you come to deliver me to Justice?"... "Not so," says JOSEPH. "Long years ago I swore to my dying Aunt to protect your reputation, even at the expense of my own. I come to warn you that"—&c., &c. (The Audience, who are now in excellent spirits, receive every incident with uncontrollable merriment till the end of the Act. Another long wait, enlivened by a piccolo solo.)

Author. LAVINIA, it's too disgraceful—it's a deliberate conspiracy to turn the piece into ridicule. I never thought my own relations would turn against me—and yet I might have known!

Comp. It wasn't the play they laughed at, dear—that's lovely—but it's so ridiculously acted, you know!

Author. Of course the acting is abominable—but they might make allowances for that. It is so unfair! [The Play proceeds. The Heroine's jealousy has been excited by the Villain, for vague purposes of his own, and the Hero is trying to disarm her suspicions. She. "But why are you constantly going from Paris to London at the beck and call of that man?" He (aside). "If she only knew that I do it to shield my second cousin, JASPER—but my oath!—I cannot tell her! (To her.) The reason is very simple, darling—he is my Private Secretary!" (Roars of inextinguishable laughter, drowning the Wife's expressions of perfect satisfaction and confidence. The Hero wants to go out; the Wife begs him to stay; she has 'a presentiment of evil—a dread of something unseen, unknown.' He goes: the Villain enters in evening dress.) Villain. "Your husband is false to you. Meet me in half an hour at the lonely hut by the cross-roads, and you shall have proof of his guilt." (The Wife departs at once, just as she is. Villain, soliloquising.) "So—my diabolical schemes prosper. I have got JOSEPH out of the way by stratagem, decoyed his wife—my early love—to a lonely hut, where my minions wait to seize her. Now to abduct the child, destroy the certificate of vaccination which alone stands between me and a Peerage, set fire to the home of my ancestors, accuse JOSEPH of all my crimes, and take my seat in the House of Lords as the Earl of Addelegg! Ha-ha—a good night's work! a good—" Joseph (from back). "Not so. I have heard all. I will not have it. You shall not!" (&c., &c.) Villain. "You would thwart my schemes?" Joseph (firmly). "I would. My wife and child shall not—" (&c., &c.) Villain (slowly). "And the oath you swore to my Mother, your dying Aunt, would you break that?" Joseph (overcome). "My oath! my Aunt! Ah, no, I cannot, I must not break it. JASPER SHOPPUN, I am powerless—you must do your evil will!" (He sinks on a settee: Triumph of Villain, tableau, and Curtain.)

Author. I wouldn't have believed that a modern audience would treat heroic