"Kitty Carslake," said Maria. "She would not have been asked but for Lord Donnerton."

"Why should she be asked because of him?"

"Oh, he is pursuing her. My father wanted to see Lord Donnerton on some matter ... of business, I'll swear. He thought the best way of making sure he came was to invite this actress. Why are you interested in her?"

"Well, she is an actress."

"Not one of the really well known ones."

"I expect she will be ... soon."

"How do you know?" But she was not really interested in Mistress Kitty Carslake.

A month or so later she was very excited because she was going to London. It was the most exciting place in the world, she told me. Everything happened there. The King himself was often seen strolling in the parks, and there were carriages everywhere, carrying elegant ladies and gentlemen to the theaters or the court.

"And while we are there," she added, "we shall go to the Donnerton wedding."

"Donnerton!" I cried. "Does that mean he is marrying the actress?"

"That is so," replied Maria. "She gave way in the end. I suppose it was irresistible. Actresses have a wonderful time while the people like them ... but it might not be the same when they get old. Nobody wants them then. I reckon Kitty Car slake was lucky. Not every one of them marries into the peerage—and that is what they are all hoping for."

After that I thought of her often. I would enact that scene in my mind. I knew the words off by heart now. I thought: If she came again I could do it without the paper.

As if she would! As if she would remember! She had just been kind and she had used me to play the part of Romeo because there was no one else available.

a>2

Perhaps that might have been the end of my dreams if Kitty Carslake had not come back to Wilier ton. And this time she came as Lady Donnerton.

The first intimation I had of her presence there was when one of the boys from the Wilier ton stables came over to our house. I was very relieved that my parents were not there at the time when I heard that the messenger wanted to see me.

"I've got a message from Lady Donnerton. It's for you, Mistress."

He handed me a note on which was written:

Could you be at the Capulet balcony at three of the clock this afternoon? If so, I will be there to meet you.

Kitty Carslake

My heart was beating with excitement and the boy was watching me closely.

"Please tell Lady Donnerton that I shall be there," I said.

He sped away, leaving me somewhat bemused and overcome with eagerness to know why her ladyship wished to see me.

I was there before the appointed time. I had been telling myself she wanted me to rehearse something with her. I was immensely flattered that she remembered me.

She came and I was delighted to see that she had changed not at all, in spite of her grand title.

"I knew you'd come," she said. "Much has happened since we last met. I have become a ladyship!"

"Yes, I heard. Maria went to your wedding."

"A very grand affair, worthy of a high and mighty lord. Though there was much shaking of heads at his choice of bride—meant to be discreetly hidden, of course, from that unworthy lady."

"I do not believe that you are in the least little bit unworthy."

"Nor do I," she said with a laugh. "I guessed we would be of one mind on that point. Do you still think fondly of the theater? Of a surety you do. I see it in your eyes. I understand. There is nothing like it. The noise ... the color ... the elegance ... the girls selling their China oranges ... the people thronging the place ... the apprentices and the like quizzing the grand ladies and gentlemen in their boxes. And then, of course, the actors and the stage ... and the company. No, there is nothing in the world to compare with it."

"Now that you are a grand lady, do you miss being an actress?" I said.

Her eyes were a little misty, and she replied: "You sensed that, did you not? Yes, you knew it. Then I will tell you why I wished to see you. Up at the house we are going to do a little piece ... a play."

"You mean here?"

"I suggested we should. It was at the dinner table last night. We talked of the stage. I said we could do something here. There is a dais in the ballroom which would do very well as a stage. I will take you into a secret. Mistress Sarah. I intended it to be. I came prepared. I had this little piece with me. It is very simple ... easy for those who know nothing about the theater. Listen, my child. There is a part in it which is of interest. It is that of a little waif. Not the main part, but a good one. She is taken into a lord's house and the play shows what a difference she makes to everyone's life. Now, who should play the part of this little waif?"

She was looking at me intently. Then she began to laugh.

"Who," she went on, "but Mistress Sarah Standish? I have a romantic fancy that it is the beginning of a brilliant career."

I was speechless. I could not believe what she was hinting. It was not possible. I was letting my imagination run away with my good sense.

"I ... ?" I stammered.

"Why not? I have already spoken to Lady Willerton. She is not averse. They are all excited about the prospect of doing a play. These house visits often result in a certain ennui for some guests. They are so predictable. One is so very much like another, and that is tiresome when one goes to so many. People aim to be a little different. So ... our little piece will at least enliven the scene. They are all excited and I have said that you are the one to play our little waif. I told them that you had once rehearsed lines with me, so I was sure you could do it. And there was no one who could play the part. Maria perhaps, but she had no heart for it and is happy to pass it on to you. So no difficulties there. Will you take the part, Mistress Standish?"

"I am overcome," I stammered. "I do not know whether ..."

She gave that easy laugh of hers. "That means you will. Then it is settled. Now, there is little time to lose. The play is only three nights away. Tomorrow is a rehearsal. I have a copy here. You will read it through and learn your part, and tomorrow at four of the clock you will come for rehearsal. Take this copy, study it. I want you to show me that I have not been mistaken in you."

"But ... I do not know ... I have never ..."

"That is all part of the life, my dear. It is not all listening to an audience shouting 'Bravo, Madam Sarah.' It is learning parts, suffering that indescribable terror when the moment to go on stage arrives ... and sometimes the audiences are not kind. This will be different. This is not the King's Theatre in Drury Lane, or the Cockpit. This is the home of Sir Henry Willerton where, if you give the worst performance ever seen upon a stage, they will give you some applause. They will be pohte ... always. Do not fear. It is a tryout. It is to amuse the guests who are very ready to be amused; and it will show me—to a degree—whether I was right in my feeling that Mistress Sarah Standish will be an actress."

"It is so ... exciting."

"So, you will do it, Mistress Standish? You will play the part?"

"Oh, I will, I will!"

"I knew you would want to. You are myself when I was your age. Even your name is right. Sarah Standish. I hear it on people's lips. Well, we shall see ... soon. Learn your lines. Practice them every moment you can. There will be someone to prompt you, so do not let the fear of forgetting affect you. On the night, you will be that little waif. Are you happy? Delighted and a little frightened? Is that not so? It is as it should be ... a mingling of the two ... then you will get right into that little waif's skin; and, Sarah Standish, you will decide your fate which, remember, none can do but yourself. I preach. I always do, you know. It is because of my enthusiasm for my profession ... and when I see someone who feels as I do, I rant, as some would tell you. Sarah, Romeo, and little waif ... Good luck on the night."

When she had left me I sat for some time clutching the paper she had given me, staring ahead of me at those shrubs which on another occasion she had converted into Juliet's balcony; and I had never known such exhilarating anticipation before in my life.

When my mother heard that I was to go to Willerton House to perform in a play, she was disconcerted, and I greatly feared that she would forbid me to do so.

"Play-acting!" she cried. "It is doing the work of the Devil. It is against God's laws."

"Oh, come," said my father. " 'Tis not really so. 'Tis nothing but a little diversion."

"Flaunting herself on a stage!"

" 'Tis not really a stage. 'Tis only the Willerton ballroom. Sir Henry approves of it. 'Tis merely a game."

"Game!" snorted my mother. "A game of the Devil."

"Oh, come, Mildred. That is a little strong, is it not?"

"I do not like it."

"I do not see how we can forbid Sarah's going. Sir Henry would take it amiss."

It was the right approach. My mother, practical in the extreme, was fully aware of the advantages which came to us from my father's benevolent employer, and the folly of offending him. She deplored the way of life which the Willertons had taken up since the Restoration of the Monarchy, but, as my father pointed out to her, that was no concern of ours. It was a fact that almost everyone in the country had changed their way of life since then.

So, shaking her head and grumbling that no good would come of this, my mother did not persist with her objections.