* * * *

'_August_ 22.

'During the last few days I have not been seeing so much of Miss
Bretherton as before. She has been devoting herself to her family, and
Paul and I have been doing our pictures. We cannot persuade her to take
any very large dose of galleries; it seems to me that her thoughts are
set on one subject--and one subject only--and while she is in this first
stage of intensity, it is not likely that anything else will have a
chance.

'It is amusing to study the dissatisfaction of the uncle and aunt with
the turn things have taken since they left London. Mr. Worrall has been
evidently accustomed to direct his niece's life from top to bottom--to
choose her plays for her, helped by Mr. Robinson; to advise her as to her
fellow-actors, and her behaviour in society; and all, of course, with a
shrewd eye to the family profit, and as little regard as need be to any
fantastical conception of art.

'Now, however, Isabel has asserted herself in several unexpected ways.
She has refused altogether to open her autumn season with the play which
had been nearly decided on before they left London--a flimsy spectacular
performance quite unworthy of her. As soon as possible she will make
important changes in the troupe who are to be with her, and at the
beginning of September she is coming to stay three weeks with us in
Paris, and, in all probability (though the world is to know nothing of
it), Perrault of the Conservatoire, who is a great friend of ours, will
give her a good deal of positive teaching. This last arrangement is
particularly exasperating to Mr. Worrall. He regards it as sure to be
known, a ridiculous confession of weakness on Isabel's part, and so on.
However, in spite of his wrath and the aunt's sullen or tearful
disapproval, she has stood firm, and matters are so arranged.'

* * * * *

'_Saturday night, August_ 25.

'This evening we persuaded her at last to give us some scenes of Juliet.
How I wish you could have been here! It was one of those experiences
which remain with one as a sort of perpetual witness to the poetry which
life holds in it, and may yield up to one at any moment. It was in our
little garden; the moon was high above the houses opposite, and the
narrow canal running past our side railing into the Grand Canal was a
shining streak of silver. The air was balmy and absolutely still; no more
perfect setting to Shakespeare or to Juliet cou