"Yes," said Muriel tepidly. We all looked at her with some curiosity; lying back in one of Mazie's profuse rocking-chairs, she seemed very large by contrast with the rest of us. She had long round arms, long sloping thighs, long hands and feet, a great deal bigger than any of ours, but well-shaped, in so just a proportion one hardly noticed their size. I think I never saw so beautiful a woman. Beside her large classic calm, we were as a tribe of little gesticulating marionettes. She listened to our facile laughter, our high, excited voices, with a grave and rather wondering tolerance; no one ever saw her laugh. We decided it was a pose with her, thinking she was conscious, very likely, that outright mirth or any other visible emotion would somehow become her ill. You cannot imagine the Bartholdi Liberty laughing. Such regularity of features, such steadfast, intrepid eyes had Muriel; and so did she oppose to passing people and events, silence and an unmoved brow. I give the idea that she was dull; it was not so. She thought as much and as much to the point as any of us; she only lacked our fevered sprightliness.
Mazie went on expounding: "Teddy Johns is to be Mrs. Gessler, and Gwynne Peters is Mrs. Tell, or Matilda, I forget which, and J. B.'s young 'Tell.' In the play his name's Jemmy, of all things I do think that's the funniest—Jemmy! J. B. said when they found that in the libretto, they said it would be a shame to change it. I believe in the original opera, a girl always sings the part. J. B.'s all the time wanting someone to hear him speak his piece, or give him a drink of water—things like that, you know, as if he were about four years old. And he gets lost and says to the policeman that he's Jemmy Tell—I don't know why you want to laugh, but it's so silly you can't help it. He must be six-feet-two if he's an inch, and he's going to wear a little white piqué kilt to his knees with a sash and short socks and ankle-ties, and a red apple fastened on his head kind of skew-wow over one ear, with an elastic under his chin. Simply too funny for any use!"
"I don't see how he can do it," said Muriel. "Fancy! A kilt! I think it's horrid!" She spoke with unexpected energy; the lovely English rose in her cheeks suddenly deepened. Every other girl in the room wondered what it was that had waked her up; and Mazie, who was manicuring her nails (she introduced that art among us), paused with the polisher suspended, and gave her friend an acute fleeting glance.
"I don't believe J. B. minds, or he wouldn't get himself up that way," she remarked airily. "We can stand it if he can. He's got an awfully good figure. After all, the kilt isn't much different from a Roman costume—like what John McCullough wears in 'Virginius,' you know. J. B.'s on to his own good points; he's not going to make a guy of himself—catch a man doing that. 'Tell's' sort of comic opera, and do you know, girls, honestly, I can't see but that it's every bit as good as 'Olivette'—you haven't seen that yet. They'll have it out here by next winter, I suppose; it's always a year before things get West from New York. We thought we'd have the other play afterwards—they aren't either of them long. That will give all the men a chance to get into their dress-clothes before the dancing begins. Teddy and J. B. are both in the second one, too. It's called 'Mrs. Tankerville's Tiara."
"Where did you get it? Public Library?"
"Oh, gracious, no. I shouldn't have known what to ask for, you know; why, there've been millions and millions of plays written—did you know that? Just millions! No, Doctor Vardaman lent me the book; I went down to the house and looked over ever so many with him. You ought to see the doctor's library; I'd never been in it before; I believe where we've got one book, he has twenty at the very least. They go all around the room in shelves with the busts of people on top, Shakespeare, I suppose, and—and—well, Shakespeare, you know, and men like that. And he has funny old stuffed birds sitting up between the busts. You wouldn't think that would be pretty, would you, just books, and mothy old birds, and no curtains at the windows; it isn't a bit stylish, but somehow it looks like Doctor Vardaman. Well, we looked at the greatest pile of books of plays, and I told the doctor I thought we oughtn't to attempt anything but farce, so that we'd be sure of entertaining people. But he said if we really meant to be funny, we'd better be serious; he'd guarantee everybody would be much more entertained. Doctor Vardaman does say such queer things—you never know whether he's laughing at you, or with you. But he's lovely about hearing us rehearse (he's seen it on the stage, you know), and suggesting business—that's when you have to stand in a corner and make believe to be doing something when it isn't your turn to talk. Isn't it funny you never see actors standing still, and looking stumped for something to do? They're always walking around, or they've got something in their hands to fuss with, or——"
"Well, that's business, isn't it?"
"Yes, but I don't see why they can't sit still just the way we are now—but if they did, it probably wouldn't look right on the stage. Only how do they think up all the things they do? Business is a lot harder than talking, anyhow. Muriel's the leading lady, she's got an awfully long part. J. B. has to make love to her, you know, and when the butler steals the diamonds, and they think Muriel did it, he goes right away and proposes to her, to show that he trusts her anyway——"
"I don't like all that spoony part," said Muriel, colouring painfully.
"He don't either, I guess," said Kitty. "Men don't like being made to look ridiculous."