The general run of the critics fancied that Annie Brunel had added another to her list of brilliant successes, and were already shaping in their brain elaborate sentences overflowing with adjectives.
Lord Weyminster, whom people considered to have a share in the proprietary of the theatre, went behind the scenes and met Mr. Melton.
"This won't do, my boy," he said.
"Do you think not?" said the manager, anxiously. "They received her very warmly."
"They received Miss Brunel warmly, but not her 'Rosalind.'"
"What's to be done?"
"Change the piece."
"I can't. Perhaps it was only a temporary indisposition."
"Perhaps," said his lordship, carelessly. "I never saw such a difference in the acting of any woman. Formerly she was full of fire; to-night she was wooden—pretty enough, and proper enough, but wooden."
Further consolation or advice Mr. Melton could not get out of his patron. In despair, he said that his lordship was exaggerating a temporary constraint on the part of the young actress, and that the succeeding scenes would bring her out in full force.