Mr. Bensa always seemed too easy and pleasant
to be real. I liked it so much, that I didn't
believe it could come true. I want so very
much to do right. I hope this is right, and I
think it must be, for—it's an odd thing, but I
have always noticed it—the things that are easy
and pleasant, and that you like best, are so
often wrong."

It was a hard saying for so young a creature.
But Corda's life-lessons were being learned in a
hard school.

CHAPTER XI. THE LONDON MANAGER.

"HAVE you it on authority?" asked Mrs.
Digby Wylde, the leading lady, in a deep-toned
voice. "Because it seems to me very, very
improbable."

"To be sure," rejoined our old acquaintance,
Mr. Snell, recently promoted to the position of
second low comedian at the Theatre Royal,
Dublin; "on the best authority. Oh, it's quite
correct, you may depend upon it, Mrs. Wylde.
You'll see our young friend's name in big
letters at the Royal Thespian Theatre before
next year's out. And that's a nice state of
things for the profession to have come to,
ain't it?"

Mrs. Digby Wylde smiled contemptuously.

"To me," she said, in her loftiest manner, "it
matters little. For the sake of the profession
in general, I own I think this kind of thing
deplorable—deplorable!"

"Ah-h-h," exclaimed a stout old gentleman,
in a court suit and powdered wig, drawing a
long breath and nodding portentously, "I tell
you what it is, ma'am, the London stage is
going to the deuce as fast as it can go. The
provinces, ma'am, the provinces are the home of
the drama. I went to London for a fortnight
during our last vacation, and I was astonished
at the exhibitions they will tolerate on the
metropolitan boards. By George, I should like
to see 'em stand it here, that's all! Why,
they'd fling the benches at you!"

"Umph!" grunted Jerry Shaw, who was
squeezed into the darkest corner of the green-
room, where this talk was going on one evening
during the performance. "Aha! Well, it's a
comfort for us who can't get to London to
think of that, anyhow."

Mrs. Wylde merely shrugged her shoulders
disdainfully. She had tried one or two
passages of arms with old Jerry, and—being by
no means a fool—had perceived the unlikelihood
of any glory to be derived by her from
such combats. She therefore preserved an
attitude of armed neutrality in his presence. But
the stout old gentleman, who was rather obtuse,
did not imitate her wisdom.

"Mr. Shaw," said he, with some heat, "I'll
trouble you to speak for yourself when you talk
about people who can't get to London. I beg
to inform you, sir, that as far as I am concerned,
the difficulties have been all of my own making
—all of my own making, sir."

"Of course," said Jerry, in his sharpest
tones, and jerking out his words in little short
sentences, "no doubt of that. You wouldn't
suit the Cockneys a bit. No more should I.
You're too clever for 'em. And I'm not clever
enough. That's a quare thing when you come
to look at it."

Mr. Snell stood by, rubbing his hands, and
maliciously enjoying the duel—a very unequal
one, save that the stout old gentleman possessed
that mail of proof which Napoleon ascribed to
the British army—he did not know when he
was beaten.

"Well," said Mr. Snell, "it's to be hoped
that Miss M. A. Bell will prove clever enough,
and not too clever. It's a fine thing to be a
novice. I wish I was a novice. Perhaps a
London manager would take a fancy to me,
then."

"Perhaps he might," said Jerry, "because
then there'd be some hope of your
improving."

"Ha, ha! Not bad, Mr. Shaw, not bad,"
laughed Mr. Snell, colouring scarlet through
his stage rouge. "I'm never angry at anything
you say."

"Sorry I can't return the compliment. I'm
angry at a good many things you say."

"Oh!" sneered Mr. Snell, "if you're angry
with everybody who doesn't admire Miss Bell,
you'll have plenty to do."

"But if I make friends with everybody
who does admire her, I shall have a vast
deal more to do. Why the devil—I beg
your pardon, Mrs. Wylde—why in the world
can't you let the girl alone? Isn't she as
sweet and good natured as a May morning?
Does she ever carp, or backbite, or say unkind
things of, or to, any of ye? I was going to
say, 'isn't she a lady to the backbone,' but on
second thoughts I won't trouble you with that
argument," muttered old Jerry, finishing his
speech almost inaudibly.

"Mr. Shaw is of opinion," said Mrs. Wylde,
majestically, "that his present hearers are
incompetent to appreciate Miss Bell's ladylike
qualities."

At this moment the call-boy summoned Mr.
Shaw, and Jerry hobbled out of the green-room
without deigning to reply to Mrs. Wylde's last
speech.

"But is it really true, Snell," said the stout
old man, as soon as Jerry Shaw had left the
room—"is it really true that Allen has engaged
Miss Bell for the Thespian?"

"I believe it is. I tell you how I heard it.
My dresser is the landlord of the house where
the Trescotts lodge, and he says that little Corda
is full of some grand thing or other that's to
happen to Miss Bell, and that she said she
was going to London; and my dresser says, too,
he suspects there's been some split between that
conceited puppy Alfred Trescott and the Walton
party. But the little girl won't say anything
about it, or can't. And I know, too, from
another source, that Allen spoke very highly of
Miss B. to Barker. And altogether, I should
say there's no doubt that——"