Meditations by myself when in a costume something between a naval officer, a Spanish grandee, and Richard the Third.—What can be the fun of dressing up? It is so much more comfortable in your own things. And a charade's a bore. At least, it bores the audience, I'm sure. And if there are people acting who say all sorts of nonsense, and do anything, there's no art in it. . . Nine o'clock. I wish he'd brought a longer candle, and would be quicker in dressing. He's gone to his own room, perhaps, to dress, or is arranging the performance. . . . . . . . It's a melancholy thing to be in these clothes. I wonder if they were made for some great actor, or whether they were once the real thing? No, that's impossible. . . . . I wish Miss Medford was going to take a part—perhaps she is. . . . unless that's her touch on the piano. The overture probably. . . . . It's so cold in here, I must walk about. . . . . The candle is burning down.
Happy Thought.—Ring and ask for another candle, and for Mr. Layder.
Maid servant enters . . . gives a shriek and a start, and then—poor girl! . . . . faints.
There is no water at hand. . . .
I don't like to touch her.
I've got an idea that people in that state bite, scratch, and kick, if touched.
Happy Thought.—Let ill alone.
I ring violently.
Enter Butler. Fortunately Madame Regniati's maid passes, with salts. The girl recovers consciousness. She revives and says I frightened her. I ask the butler to look for Mr. Layder.
Butler thinks they're all in the theatre-room hearing some lecture. 10 o'clock.