THE FAVORITE.
Some people would die rather than talk aloud in a 'bus; others would rather die than hold their peace there. This second kind is more fun, and four of it made part of my journey the other day from Victoria to Oxford Street (I forget the number of the 'bus, but it goes up Bond Street) much less tedious. They were all young women in the latest teens or the earliest twenties, and all were what is called well-to-do, and they were fluent talkers.
Years ago, when poor LEWIS WALLER was at the height of his fame, we used to hear of a real or fictitious "Waller Club," the members of which were young women who spent as much time as they could in visiting his theatre and rejoicing in the sight of his brave gestures and the sound of his vibrant voice. It was even said that they had a badge by which they could know each other; although on the face of it, judging by what sparse scraps of information concerning the nature of woman I have been able painfully to collect, I should say that segregation would be, in such a case as this, more to their taste.
Be that true or only invented, it is very clear that in spite of the War and its shattering way with so many ancient shibboleths the cult of the actor is still strong; for this is the kind of thing that lasted all the way from Hyde Park Corner to Vere Street:—
"Did you see him the other day in that ballet? Of course I knew he could dance, because he can do everything, but I never thought he was going to be so gloriously graceful as he was."
"But surely you ought to have known. Don't you remember him as the Prince at the LORD MAYOR'S Ball?"
"And what a wonderful figure he has!"
"I couldn't help wishing that he had only stained his legs instead of putting on red tights."