tive
woman, who feels dress should be a means of expression, an outward hint
of the character of the woman she is trying to present.

Should you not be in a running play, you may be an understudy for one
or two of the ladies who are. You will study their parts, be rehearsed
in their "business," and will then hold yourself in readiness to take,
on an instant's notice, either of their places, in case of sickness,
accident, or ill news coming to either of them. If the parts are good
ones, you will be astonished at the perfect immunity of actresses from
all mishaps; but all the same you may never leave your house without
leaving word as to where you are going and how long you expect to stay.

You may never go to another theatre without permission of your own
manager; indeed, she is a lucky "understudy" who does not have to report
at the theatre at 7 o'clock every night to see if she is needed. And it
sometimes happens that the only sickness the poor "understudy" knows of
during the whole run of the play is that sickness of deferred hope which
has come to her own heart.

Not so very hard a day or night, so far as physical labour goes, is it?
But, oh! the sameness, the deadly monotony, of repeating the same words
to the same person at the same moment every night, sick or well, sad or
happy--the same, same words!

A "one-play" company offers the worst possible chance to the beginner.
The more plays there are, the more you learn from observation, as well
as from personal effort, to make the parts you play seem as unlike one
another as possible. A day like this admits of no drives, no calls, no
"teas"; you see, then, a theatrical life is not one long picnic.

If there is one among my readers to whom the dim and dingy half-light of
the theatre is dearer than the God-given radiance of the sunlight; if
the burnt-out air with its indescribable odour, seemingly composed of
several parts of cellar mould, a great many parts of dry rot or unsunned
dust, the whole veined through and through with small streaks of escaped
illuminating gas--if this heavy, lifeless air is more welcome to your
nostrils than could be the clover-sweetened breath of the greenest
pasture; if that great black gulf, yawning beyond the extinguished
footlights, makes your heart leap up at your throat; if without noting
the quality or length of your part the just plain, bald fact of "acting
something" thrills you with nameless joy; if the rattle-to-bang of the
il