But Miss Masters' fears were groundless: the Lady Hyacinths though
dedicated to a flower of spring were old and wise in social
distinctions. The story of King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid would have
drawn only a contemptuous "cut it out" from the lady President. Every
Hyacinth of them knew her exact place in nature's garden--all except
Mary Conners--now Ophelia--and she knew herself to be a foundling with
no place at all. The lonely woman who had adopted her was now dead and
Mary was quite alone in her little two-room tenement, free to dream and
play Ophelia to her heart's content and to an imaginary Hamlet who was
always Burgess. To her he was indeed, "The expectancy and rose of the
fair state." "The glass of fashion and the mould of form." He was "her
honoured lord"--"her most dear lord." But in Monroe Street she never
deceived him. Never handed his letters over to interfering relatives.
She could quite easily go mad and tuneful when she knew that each
rehearsal--each lesson taught by him and so quickly learned by
her--brought the days when she would never see him so close that she
could almost feel their emptiness.

It was well that she played to an idealized Hamlet for the real Hamlets
came and went bewilderingly. One of Burgess's first triumphs of tact had
been to pry the part away from the lady President and give it to the
sturdy Secretary. There followed two other claimants to the throne in
quick succession and then the lot fell to Rebecca Einstein and stayed
there. Each change in the principal role necessitated readjustment
throughout the cast and at every change the lady President was persuaded
not to over exert herself.

And still Burgess in the seclusion of the homeward bound hansom railed
and swore.