Kitty sprang from the settle.
“Like?” she said. “What is he like? He is like a man in the presence of a ghost at first, and then—then the ghost becomes more substantial than he. You hear a sudden cry—he stands transfixed with horror—you see that he is not breathing, and he makes you one with himself. You cannot breathe. You feel that his hand is on your heart. You are in the power of his grasp. He can do what he pleases with you. If he tightens his grasp you will never breathe again in this world. There is a terrible pause—he draws his breath—he allows you to draw yours; but you feel in that long silence you have been carried away to another world—you are in a place of ghosts—there is nothing real of all that is about you—you have passed into a land of shadows, and you are aware of a shadow voice that can thrill a thousand men and women as though they were but one person:—
“'Angels and ministers of grace defend us!'
“Bah! what a fool I am!” cried Kitty, flinging herself excitedly upon the settle. “Imitate Mr. Garrick? Sir, he is inimitable! One may imitate an actor of Hamlet. David Garrick is not that; he is, I repeat, Hamlet himself.”
Mr. Bates was breathing hard. There was a considerable pause before he found words to say,—“Madam, for one who has no stage training, I protest that you display some power. You have almost persuaded me to admire another actor's Hamlet—a thing unheard of on the stage. I, myself, play the part of the Prince of Denmark. It would gratify me to be permitted to rehearse a scene in your presence. You would then see on what points Mr. Garrick resembles me.”
“Oh, lord!” muttered Kitty, making a face behind Mr. Bates' back.
“There is the scene at the grave. I am reckoned amazing in that scene.”
“Amazing? I do not doubt it.”
“I wonder how Mr. Garrick acts the grave scene.”
“Oh, sir, 't is his humour to treat it paradoxically.” Kitty was now herself again. “He does not treat the grave scene gravely but merrily.”