Perhaps he felt a shade awkward at the rehearsal next morning to find the stage thronged with so many unfamiliar faces, but for the most part they were a friendly company, and very soon he was quite at ease with the men.
The ladies he found difficult, being so totally dissimilar to the homely, good-natured souls who played with him on his hundred tours.
There was a Miss Helen Winter, who played the Queen and whose personality caused him alarm. She seemed far more like a duchess than the real example he had seen in the Park. Her clothes were severe to a fault, and she used lorgnettes with awful precision. Somehow the sense of these instruments pervaded her even in the Castle of Elsinore.
When they were introduced she said:
“How do you do, dear Mr. Cardomay. I have heard so much about you.” Then departed quickly, as though fearing he might be tempted to tell her more.
For Ophelia one of London’s younger emotional actresses had been secured. Her emotions were more acutely demonstrated off the stage than on, for it appeared, despite a healthy exterior, she was racked with torments arising from an ailment described as “my neuralgia.” She spoke of her neuralgia as others might say “My Mother.” It was indeed her most cherished possession, and only through the good offices of smelling-salts and aspirin was she able to encompass the calls made upon her artistry.
Eliphalet, having made the acquaintance of the young lady and her neuralgia, and being attracted by neither, sought for someone to talk with during his long waits. In so doing he espied Miss Mornice June.
Mornice was absurdly pretty. She had big black-lashed eyes and a mass of whitey-gold fluffy hair. She played the part of the Player Queen, and held sway over the hearts of the small-part young gentlemen and those engaged as “extras.”
They gathered about her in the wings and sought the favour of her smile. Neither did they seek in vain, for Mornice had a quality of responsiveness that caused all who came in contact with her to believe themselves vital to her well-being. Did they come with jests, her laughter was light-hearted and unstinted; did they come in sorrow, she was quick to sympathise, and real tears would moisten her lashes. An extremely sensitive person was Mornice, who answered every vibration about her—be it grave or gay. Not in mood alone but in outline, her entire being seemed to impregnate itself with the spirit of the moment. She would break off suddenly in the merriest laugh to respond to a bar of music wailing pathetically from a hidden violin.
“Just listen! Isn’t it wonderful!” she would say, transformed into a picture of rapt adoration. Then in a second she was back again to her faun-like merriment, exchanging jokes that a properly brought up young lady would have failed to understand.