Today | News | Books | Recipes Adventure | Science Fiction | Ghost stories | Poetry | Children | History Bookonjoined over the happy hour appointed for his interview with her who held his life's happiness at her sole command. Arrived at his destination, he timidly rang the door-bell, and on giving the servant his card, was informed the lady was 'at home.' On entering the drawing-room, he beheld Mademoiselle reclining in a graceful attitude on a low ottoman. She wore a _négligé_ costume of some sort of soft warm cream-coloured material, which harmonised delightfully with her clear, transparent, olive complexion, and displayed the symmetry of her exquisitely formed figure to great advantage. She wore no jewelry; her only ornament was a beautiful Marshal M'Mahon rose, the deep crimson petals of which formed a charming contrast to the raven tresses on which they reposed. There were two other occupants of the room; and it was easy to see, from their 'at-home' air, that they were not merely visitors. One was a brisk little lady, with a pleasant good-humoured expression, who it would be safe to guess had seen at least fifty summers. The other was a tall stately girl of not more than seventeen or eighteen. She had evidently been practising at the piano, which lay open, with the score of a new opera on the music-holder. Had Hector's mind not been so fully engrossed, he probably would have noticed a considerable resemblance between her and the fair object of his devotions. The principal difference lay in the colour of the hair, the complexion, and the stature. The young lady was a pronounced blonde, possessing large azure orbs of almost dreamy softness, and a wealth of light reddish-golden hair carelessly twisted and fastened in a coil at the back of the head. As Hector advanced, Mademoiselle rose gracefully from her seat and, glancing at his card, said in the same rich contralto tones which had so inthralled him in the theatre: 'Ah, Mr Mackinnon, I perceive! Good-morning, sir. Pray, be seated.' Holding out her hand, he had the brief precious delight of pressing it for a second in his trembling palm.-'Now, you needn't leave the room,' she said, addressing her two companions. 'This is the gentleman who did me the honour of sending me the poem entitled _Amor in Mors_.-Permit me to introduce you to my good friend Mrs Eskell; and to Mademoiselle Andresen, my niece.' The introductions being over, Hector resumed his seat. He never felt so embarrassed in the whole course of his life. How fondly had he rehearsed in his mind the many brilliant tender speeches he would give utterance to on this occasion! Now that the wished-for opportunity had arrived, he sat speechless. It is but fair to say, however, that he did not contemplate the presence of third parties at the interview. Still, their presence should not have tongue-tied him as it did-he, the glibest debater and the best elocutionist in the college. Seeing his embarrassment, the lady came to his relief. 'Well, Mr Mackinnon, I am very much pleased with your poem, and I think, with a few slight alterations, it might make a very effective recitation. Do you not think, though, the title is a little too lugubrious? Could you not substitute some other word for Mors? Just reflect! Fancy me dying every night for the past fortnight as Juliet! It is really too bad of the good folks of your city to insist on my manager making me repeat night after night a part which I have begun really to detest.' 'O Mademoiselle, do not say that,' cried Hector. 'Ah, if you but knew the delightful thrill you send through the audience in the balcony scene-and-and-the tears you cause them to shed when the unfortunate heroine-Shakspeare's greatest creation'-- 'Shakspeare's greatest fiddlestick!' she replied, laughing merrily. 'What people see in her, I'm sure I don't know! To my mind, she's a forward young chit, that would have been much better employed in mending Papa Capulet's hose and helping her mother to keep house, than philandering with her Romeo.-But about _Amor in Mors_. Don't you think, now, you could make it just the tiniest little bit funny? I do so long to get out of this continued round of love-making, murder, and suicide.' Could he believe his ears? Was this cynical, matter-of-fact woman identical with the fair embodiment of transcendental, ethereal love, on whose accents he had hung with enraptured delight for the past few nights? No, it could not be; there must be some strange mistake. Yet, when her mobile features were for a moment in repose, there he beheld the same deep, lustrous, unfathomable eyes-the same sweet innocent mouth, with its half-childlike pouting lips. He was bewildered, and as in a dream. 'You are pleased, Mademoiselle, to be satirical this morning,' he replied. 'I cannot do you the injustice of supposing you are in earnest in what you say. No one could enact the part of Juliet so nobly unless she were capable of imbuing herself thoroughly with the divine passion attributed to her by her creator.' 'Believe me, you are quite wrong there, Mr Mackinnon. It is not by any means those parts which actors have the natural emotional qualifications for, that they excel in portraying. Nature in that case _destroys_ art; and hence it is that parts that actors like best are precisely those they act worst. For myself, I am guided entirely by public criticism, and confine myself to those rôles that draw the best houses. Of course I have my own predilections. I have a very fair singing voice, and think I should be able to do very well in opera-bouffe. Oh, I _do_ dote on opera-bouffe!-But about _Amor in Mors_. I really think the language is splendid-quite as good as Shakspeare's, I daresay, although I don't profess to be a literary critic. Well, if you would alter the conclusion in such a way as to make the audience take a good hearty laugh after I had wound them up to the crying pitch, I believe it would be effective, and I will line it in the bills for my first Saturday morning readings.' 'Alas, Mademoiselle, I fear my poor verses are not susceptible of being changed in the way you wish; but if you allow me, I shall endeavour to write something in a lighter vein, that may have the happiness to merit your approval. Permit me to ask you to retain the verses you have.' 'With pleasure, sir,' she replied.-'I presume you are of the literary profession?' Hector was not very sure whether a divinity student came of right under that category or not, but he replied in the affirmative. 'Well, then, we shall be glad to see you, if you can come along here to supper at twelve o'clock on Friday first. It is a farewell entertainment I am giving to a few friends of the press, and others. If you have your new piece done, bring it with you; I'll recite it, and we'll see what they think of it.' Thus saying, she rose, as if to indicate the interview was at an end; and after making his adieux, Hector departed in a very anomalous state of mind. The bright, girlish, gushing Juliet of the footlights was for ever annihilated in his mind. In her stead stood an u |