ntil the advertisements were able to announce "Fifteenth Night
of the Great Realistic Drama." And various scathing paragraphs from
the papers were pruned down and weeded till they seemed unstinted
praise. Thus: "It was not the fault of the management that the new
play was so far from being a triumphant success," was cut down to one
modest sentence, "A triumphant success." "A few enthusiastic cheers
from personal friends alone broke the ominous silence when the
curtain fell," became briefly "Enthusiastic cheers."

But nobody was deceived. One week the public were informed that they
could book their seats a month in advance; the next that the
successful drama had to be withdrawn at the height of its popularity,
owing to other arrangements. What the other arrangements were to be
our manager was at his wit's end to decide. There only wanted three
weeks to the close of the season. Fired with a wild ambition born of
suspense and disappointment, I suggested that Shakespeare should fill
the breach. "Romeo and Juliet," with me, Sybil Gascoigne, as the
heroine.

"Pshaw!" said our good-humoured manager, "you do not know what you
are talking about. Juliet! You have not the depth, the temperament,
the experience for a Juliet. She had more knowledge of life at
thirteen than most of our English maids have at thirty. To represent
Juliet correctly an actress must have the face and figure of a young
girl, with the heart and mind of a woman, and of a woman who has
suffered."

"And have I not suffered? Do you think because you see me tripping
through some foolish, insipid _role_ that I am capable of nothing
better? Give me a chance and see what I can do."

"Oh! bid me leap, rather than marry Paris,"

I began, and declaimed the speech with such despairing vigour that
our manager was impressed.

Well, the end of it was that he yielded to my suggestion.

It seemed a prosperous time to float a new Juliet. At a
neighbouring theatre a lovely foreign actress was playing the part
nightly to crowded houses. We might get some of the overflow, or the
public would come for the sake of comparing native with imported
talent. Oh! the faces of my traducers, who had said, "Those
Gascoigne girls have no feeling for art," when it was known that they
were out of the bill, and that Sybil Gascoigne was to play
Shakespeare. I absolutely forgot Jack for one moment. But the next,
my grief, my desolation, were present with me with more acutenes