“What, sir!” she cried, “are you not an actor on your own confession, whatever the critics may say?”
“I admit it, my dear lady; but at the same time, I repeat that I have no faith in the stage. Acting is the most unconvincing of the arts. Is there ever a human being outside Bedlam who fancies that the stage hero is in earnest?”
“I should say that the force of the illusion is largely dependent upon the actor,” said Kitty.
“Nothing of the sort, I assure you,” said Bates, with a pitying smile—the smile of the professor for the amateur. “The greatest of actors—nay, even I myself, madam, fail to carry an audience along with me so as to make my hearers lose sight of the sham. What child would be imposed on by the sufferings of the stage hero or heroine? What school miss would fail to detect the ring of falsehood in the romance of what authors call their plots?”
“You fancy that everyone should be capable of detecting the difference between a woman's account of her real woes and an actress's simulation of such woes?”
“That is my contention, madam. The truth has a ring about it that cannot be simulated by even the best actress.”
“Dear, dear!” cried Kitty, lifting up her hands. “What a wonder it is that any persons can be prevailed upon to go evening after evening to the playhouses! Why, I myself go—yes, frequently. Indeed—perhaps I should blush to confess it—I am a constant attender at Drury Lane. I do not believe I should be able to live without going to the playhouse!”
“Tell the truth, madam,” cried Mr. Bates, stretching out an eloquent forefinger at her as she sat on the settle looking at her hands on her lap, “have you ever sat out an entire play?”
Kitty looked up and laughed loud and long, so that Mr. Bates felt greatly flattered. He began to believe that he had just said a very clever thing.
“Well, there I allow that you have me,” said Kitty. “Sir, I admit that as a rule I do not remain seated during even an entire act of a play.”