ever-ready
jest came bravely to the fore to hide my hurt from the public eye, and at
next rehearsal I shook my head mournfully and remarked to the little man:
"Bad--bad! Miss Cushman must be a very bad _Lady Macbeth_--I don't want
to see her!"

"What?" he exclaimed, "Cushman not play _Lady Macbeth_--for heaven's
sake, why not?"

"No murderess!" I declared, with an air of authority recognized by those
about me as a fair copy of his own. "If Miss Cushman is not a murderess,
pray how can she act _Lady Macbeth_--who is?" And the laugh that followed
helped a little to scare away the bugaboo his words had raised in my
mind.

Then, ridiculous as it may seem to an outsider, the question of dress
proved to be a snag, and there was any amount of backing and filling
before we could get safely round it.

"What are you going to wear, Miss Morris?" asked Mr. Cazauran one day
after rehearsal--and soon we were at it, and the air was thick with
black, brown, gray, purple, red, and blue! I starting out with a gray
traveling-dress, for a reason, and Mr. Cazauran instantly and without
reason condemned it. He thought a rich purple would be about the thing.
Mr. Palmer gave a small contemptuous "Humph"! and I cried out, aghast:
"Purple? the color of royalty, of pomp, of power? A governess in a rich
purple? Your head would twist clear round, hind side to, with amazement,
if you saw a woman crossing from Calais to Dover attired in a royal
purple traveling-suit."

Mr. Palmer said: "Nonsense, Cazauran; purple is not appropriate;" and
then, "How would blue--dark blue or brown do?" he asked.

"For just a traveling-dress either one would answer perfectly," I
answered; "but think of the character I am trying to build up. Why not
let me have all the help my gown can give me? My hair is to be
gray--white at temples; I have to wear a dress that requires no change in
going at once to cars and boat. Now gray or drab is a perfect
traveling-gown, but think, too, what it can express--gray hair, white
face, gray dress without relief of trimming, does it not suggest the
utterly flat, hopeless monotony of the life of a governess in London? Not
hunger, not cold, but the very dust and ashes of life? Then, when the
woman arrives at the home of her rival and tragedy is looming big on the
horizon, I want to wear red."

"Good God!" exclaimed Cazauran; and really red was so utterly unworn at
that time that I was forced to buy furniture covering, reps, in ord