"But," I said, in an agony of disappointment, "the newspapers speak well of it!"
"Yes," replied Sothern, "the critics here are good friends of mine, and I persuaded them that it was a sorry task to break a butterfly on a wheel. It was impossible for me at a moment's notice to get another after-piece ready to put in its place, but to-night 'My Wife's Father's Sister' will be played for the second and last time. Don't shirk seeing it, it will be a useful, if painful, lesson to you, and at supper to-night we'll try and find out where the fatal kink in it lies, for, as you know, I felt certain that it was going to be a hit."
In spite of my friend's kindness, sympathy, and unbounded hospitality, I, crushed with mortification, spent a wretched afternoon, and in the early evening (Sothern, who was to play Dundreary, had preceded me) I wended my sad way to the theatre. On my walk I met a mutual friend.
SMALLHYTHE FARM.
Ellen Terry's country retreat at Tenterden, Kent. [To face page 80.
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"Well, how did the piece go last night?" he asked. "I was sorry I couldn't be there to see."
Miserably I told him my bitter news, and how the play had failed.