's done," he explained as
they got into a hansom. "It's tremendously well put on, too. Florence
Merrill and Cyril Henderson. But Hilda Burgoyne's the hit of the piece.
Hugh's written a delightful part for her, and she's quite inexpressible.
It's been on only two weeks, and I've been half a dozen times already.
I happen to have MacConnell's box for tonight or there'd be no chance of
our getting places. There's everything in seeing Hilda while she's fresh
in a part. She's apt to grow a bit stale after a time. The ones who have
any imagination do."

"Hilda Burgoyne!" Alexander exclaimed mildly. "Why, I haven't heard of
her for--years."

Mainhall laughed. "Then you can't have heard much at all, my dear
Alexander. It's only lately, since MacConnell and his set have got hold
of her, that she's come up. Myself, I always knew she had it in her. If
we had one real critic in London--but what can one expect? Do you know,
Alexander,"--Mainhall looked with perplexity up into the top of the
hansom and rubbed his pink cheek with his gloved finger,--"do you know,
I sometimes think of taking to criticism seriously myself. In a way, it
would be a sacrifice; but, dear me, we do need some one."

Just then they drove up to the Duke of York's, so Alexander did not
commit himself, but followed Mainhall into the theatre. When they
entered the stage-box on the left the first act was well under way, the
scene being the interior of a cabin in the south of Ireland. As they sat
down, a burst of applause drew Alexander's attention to the stage. Miss
Burgoyne and her donkey were thrusting their heads in at the half door.
"After all," he reflected, "there's small probability of her recognizing
me. She doubtless hasn't thought of me for years." He felt the
enthusiasm of the house at once, and in a few moments he was caught up
by the current of MacConnell's irresistible comedy. The audience
had come forewarned, evidently, and whenever the ragged slip of a
donkey-girl ran upon the stage there was a deep murmur of approbation,
every one smiled and glowed, and Mainhall hitched his heavy chair a
little nearer the brass railing.

"You see," he murmured in Alexander's ear, as the curtain fell on
the first act, "one almost never sees a part like that done without
smartness or mawkishness. Of course, Hilda is Irish,--the Burgoynes have
been stage people for generations,--and she has the Irish voice. It's
delightful to hear it in a London theatre. That laugh