“'You men of Angiers, open wide your gates,
And let young Arthur, Duke of Bretagne, in;
Who, by the hand of France, this day hath made
Much work for tears in many an English, mother.'”
or—
'"I am not mad: this hair I tear is mine;
My name is Constance; I am Geffrey's wife;
Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost!'”
“Bravo, Bud!” would Molyneux cry, delighted. “Why, if I was an actor-manager, I'd pay you any salary you had the front to name. Ain't she just great, Millicent? I tell you, Miss Ailie, she puts the blinkers on Maude Adams, and sends Ellen 'way back in the standing room only. Girly, all you've got to learn is how to move. You mustn't stand two minutes in the same place on the stage, but cross 'most every cue.”
“I don't know,” said Bud, dubiously. “Why should folk have fidgets on a stage? They don't always have them in real life. I'd want to stand like a mountain—you know, Auntie Ailie, the old hills at home!—and look so—so—so awful, the audience would shriek if I moved, the same as if I was going to fall on them.”
“Is that how you feel?” asked Jim Molyneux, curiously surveying her.
“Yes, that's how I feel,” said Bud, “when I've got the zip of poetry in me. I feel I'm all made up of burning words and eyes.”
“Child, you are very young!” said Mrs Molyneux.
“Yes,” said Bud, “I suppose that's it. By-and-by I'll maybe get to be like other people.”
Jim Molyneux struck the table with his open hand. “By George!” he cried; “I wouldn't hurry being like other people; that's what every gol-damed idiot in England's trying, and you're right on the spot just now as you stand. That's straight talk, nothing but! I allow I favor a bit of leg movement on the stage—generally it's about the only life there is on it—but a woman who can play with her head don't need to wear out much shoe-leather. Girly—” He stopped a second, then burst out with the question, “How'd you like a little part in this 'King John'?”