point to her words. The scene was, fortunately, a short one, and no
sooner had they disappeared than a young man entered. He held a lute in
his left hand, and with his right he twanged the strings idly. He was
King Cophetua, and many times during rehearsal Alice had warned May that
her reading of the character was not right; but May did not seem able to
accommodate herself to the author's view of the character, and, after a
few minutes, fell back into her old swagger; and now, excited by the
presence of an audience, by the footlights, by the long coat under which
she knew her large, well-shaped legs could be seen, she forgot her
promises, and strolled about like a man, as she had seen young Scully
saunter about the stable-yard at home. She looked, no doubt, very
handsome, and, conscious of the fact, she addressed her speeches to a
group of young men, who, for no ostensible reason except to get as far
away as possible from the Bishop, had crowded into the left-hand corner
of the hall.

And so great was May's misreading of the character, that Alice could
hardly realize that she was listening to her own play. Instead of
speaking the sentence, 'My dear mother, I could not marry anyone I did
not love; besides, am I not already wedded to music and poetry?' slowly,
dreamily, May emphasized the words so jauntily, that they seemed to be
poetic equivalents for wine and tobacco. There was no doubt that things
were going too far; the Reverend Mother frowned, and shifted her
position in her chair uneasily; the Bishop crossed his legs and took
snuff methodically.

But at this moment the attention of the audience was diverted by the
entrance of the Princess. May's misbehaviour was forgotten, and a murmur
of admiration rose through the red twilight. Dressed in a tight-fitting
gown of pale blue, opening in front, and finishing in a train held up by