of applause, to flowers left at the
stage-door, and to boxes of chocolates handed over the footlights. Night
after night, in dance or make-believe of life, she spends herself to
exhaustion for the pleasure of the multitude; night after night, in a
tinsel-world of limelight and grease-paint, she plays at being herself.

I rather wondered what she thought of it all, and whether she enjoyed
it; but, like most little girls, she was shy of confidences. Perhaps she
wondered at it all, perhaps sometimes she felt very tired of it all--the
noise, the dust, the glamour, and the rush. But she would not admit it.
She would only admit her joy at the ten pounds a week, out of which
Mumdear would be able to send her favourite cousin Billie to the
seaside. So I had to leave it at that, and help with the packing; and
at about a quarter to one in the morning supper was announced as ready,
and we all sat down.

I forget what we ate. There was some mystery of eggs, prepared by Joyce
and Maudie. There were various preserved meats, and some fruit, and some
Camembert, and some very good Sauterne, to all of which you helped
yourself. There was no host or hostess. You just wandered round the
table, and forked what you wanted, and ate it, and then came up for
more. When we had done eating, Dad brought out a bottle of excellent old
brandy, and Joyce and Maudie made tea for the ladies, and Beryl sat on
my knee until half-past two and talked scandal about the other members
of the White Bird Company.

At three o'clock I broke up a jolly evening, and departed, Maudie and
Joyce accompanying me to Highbury Corner, where I found a vagrant cab.

Perhaps after the cleansing of the London stage, its most remarkable
feature is this sudden invasion of it by the child. There has been much
foolish legislation on the subject, but, though it is impossible
artistically to justify the presence of children in drama, I think I
would not have them away. I think they have given the stage,
professionally, something that it is none the worse for.

All men, of course, are actors. In all men exists that desire to escape
from themselves, to be somebody else, which is expressed, in the
nursery, by their delight in "dressing up," and, in later life, by their
delight in watching others pretend. But the child is the most happy
actor, for to children acting is as natural as eating, and their stage
work always convinces because they never consciously act--never, that
is, ai