"There—that will do for to-day, Melnotte. Go back to your spade and wheelbarrow. We know our parts to perfection. I'm sick of rehearsing."
"That last scene, Pauline—we're not up in it yet—"
"Pauline! Mr. Everard, what do you mean?"
"I mean Pauline Deschappelles, of course."
"I see, I see. The last scene? Oh, I'm up in it thoroughly; and, besides, I have not time now! I must write a line to Florrie before post-time."
She turns away lightly, and Everard's eyes, following her despondently, rest on the husband and wife sitting side by side.
"I did not know you were there," he says, strolling moodily toward them. "What did you think of it?"
"We thought it capital," answers Armstrong encouragingly. "That last bit was most touchingly delivered—quite up to Barry Sullivan."
"Oh, I feel I shall do my part right enough; but your sister, Mrs. Armstrong, is not up to the mark! Don't you feel it—eh? She's very well—perfection, in fact—in the light, frivolous parts; but where the ring of passion comes in she is hard, stagey, unfeeling. She is not Bulwer's Pauline, she's herself—Pauline Lefroy—and no coaching, no training, will make her anything else."