Kemble was in his bath-robe in the bath-room before his wife, who had not moved from her posture of contemplation, suddenly thought aloud:
“After all, why not?”
Kemble paused with the tooth-paste tube above his tooth-brush to query, “Why not what?”
“What better chance is there for a woman?”
Kemble moved close enough to her to nudge her out of her muse and demand again, “What woman are you talking about?”
“That one,” said Polly. “That little understudy of life. You say we sha’n’t be able to keep her off the stage. Why should we try to?”
“Well, knowing what we do of the stage, my dear,—it isn’t exactly the ideal place for a girl, now is it?”
“No, of course not. But where is the ideal place for a girl? Is there such a thing? We know all too well how much suffering and anxiety and disappointment and wickedness there is on the stage; but where will you go to escape it? Look at the society wives and daughters we know, in town and out in the country. Look at the poor girls in the shops and factories.”
“That’s so,” Kemble spluttered across his shuttling tooth-brush. “I rather fancy a smaller city is better.”