Mrs. Toov. (to herself). There's some mystery about that wretched boy, I'm certain. If I could only find out what was in that letter. I wonder if it's in Pa's pocket—I'll soon see. (Aloud.) Turn round, Pa. Ah, I thought as much; one of your coat-tail buttons is as nearly off as it can be!

Mr. Toov. (innocently). Dear me! My Sunday coat, too. I never observed it. Could you just fasten it on a little more securely?

Mrs. Toov. If you take off your coat. I can't do it with you prancing about in front of me, Pa. (Mr. T. takes off his coat.) Now, I can't have you in my drawing-room in your shirtsleeves—suppose somebody called! Go into your study and wait there till I've done. (Mr. T. departs submissively.) Now if the letter isn't in one of these pockets, it must be in—— (She discovers the envelope.) There it is. Now I shall know what Charles—— I'm sure his poor dear mother would wish to be informed. (She opens the letter.) "Eldorado Palace of Varieties. Admit Mr. Toovey and party to Box C. This portion to be retained." (She tears off a perforated slip.) I will retain it! So Theophilus has been deceiving me—this is his business with Charles! This is why he kept that programme! And he's allowing himself to be misled by his own nephew! They're going to this music-hall to-night, together! He shall not go—never while I—stop, let me think—yes, he shall go—he shall fill up the measure of his iniquity, little dreaming that I have the clear proof of his deceit! (She thrusts the slip she has torn off into her workbox, and replaces the envelope with the remainder of the order in the pocket.) There. He won't notice that anything is missing. He's coming back. I must control myself, or he will be on his guard.

[She pretends to secure the button with unsteady fingers.

Mr. Toov. (entering). Cornelia, my love, don't trouble to do more than is absolutely necessary to keep the button secure—because I'm rather in a hurry. It doesn't matter, so long as it looks respectable!

Mrs. Toov. (with an effort to restrain her feelings). I daresay it is quite respectable enough, Pa, for where you are going.

Mr. Toov. Quite, indeed, my dear. But it would never have done to go and call on Charles with a button off the back of my coat—no, no. It was fortunate you noticed it in time, my love.

Mrs. Toov. I hope it will prove so, Theophilus. (To herself.) And this monster of duplicity is Pa! Oh, I wish I could tell him what I thought of him, but not yet—we will have our reckoning later!

Mr. Toov. (after putting on his coat). Then I think I must be going. Any message I can take to Charles?

Mrs. Toov. Yes, tell him that I trust he will profit by his good Uncle's example, and that I expect him to dinner on Monday. I may require to have a serious talk with him myself, if your account of this evening is not perfectly satisfactory.

Mr. Toov. I'll tell him, my love, but there's no reason to make yourself uneasy about Charles—he'll behave himself—he'll behave himself. (To himself, as he goes out.) I must go and see Charles now. Oh dear, I do feel so apprehensive about this visit to the Eldorado.—If I could put it off.—But I can't continue to hold those shares without some knowledge—— And Mr. Curphew made such a point of my going. No, I must go. I—I don't see how I can get out of it!

Mrs. Toov. (alone). There he goes, looking so meek and lamblike! Who would suspect, to see him, that that black coat of his was buttoned round a whited sepulchre? Oh, Pa, Pa! That after all these years of blameless life you should suddenly be seized with a depraved desire for unhallowed amusement like this! While I am at the Cumberbatches, engaged in discussing the affairs of the Zenana Mission, you and Charles will be—— Stop. How do I know he is going with Charles at all? If he is capable of deceiving me in one respect, why not in all? (She takes out the slip and looks at it.) Mr. Toovey and party! What party? May not Pa have been leading a—a double life all these years for anything I can tell? He is going to the Eldorado to-night with somebody—that's clear. Who is it? I shall never be easy till I know. And why should I not? There's the meeting, though. I might have a headache. Yes, that will do. (She goes to her writing-table.) No, I won't write. I can make some excuse to Eliza when I see her. And instead of going to the Cumberbatches this evening, I can easily slip up to Waterloo and ask my way to this place. There will be no difficulty in that. Yes, I will go, whatever it costs me. And when Pa goes into this Box C of his, he will find his "party" is larger than he expected!

End of Scene VII.

PLAYING THE DEUCE AT THE HAYMARKET.

Of course, to speak with theological accuracy, The Tempter, being the "very devil incarnate," ought to be "damned." That this has not been his fate at the Haymarket is owing to Mr. Beerbohm Tree primarily, to his company secondarily, and to the author remotely. To treat in any fresh dramatic form the story of Faust and Marguerite, a dramatist must be the subject of a special and peculiar inspiration. Now what this play lacks is inspiration.

What in this piece Enry Hauthor Jones mistook for the "divine afflatus" is mere long-windedness. His Tempter may be an entertainer assuming various disguises, and more and more like himself on every occasion, but a real devil he is not, except so far as Mr. Tree with wonderful art makes him; and, even then, the question is forced upon us, would any devil with any sort of self-respect, pick up a cross-handled dagger just as if it were an ordinary walking-stick, and politely return it to its owner? This is the first time that a devil on the stage hasn't shuddered and grovelled at the sight of a cross-handle. Again, how far more effective would some of the supernatural movements of this irreclaimably wicked personage have been had they been performed by means of some clever arrangement of "wires," such as that with which Mlle. Ænea used to astonish the public? Where are the stage mechanists who assisted George Conquest, that unique representative of sprites and gnomes, who achieved success by "leaps and bounds?"

"Arbor in Arbore." A Wood Engraving.

Fortunately the piece does not depend for its success on mere mechanism, but on the acting of Mr. Tree, which is in all respects admirable in its diabolical variety; much depends, too, on Mrs. Tree, who is charming and sympathetic in a small part. Mr. Terry, who occasionally, in tone and look, reminds me of Henry Irving, contributes his share towards the general histrionic excellence, as also does Miss Julia Neilson, who in tone and action frequently makes me wish that once and for ever she would give up