While they sat at dinner Mainhall acquainted
Bartley with the fortunes of his old friends
in London, and as they left the table he
proposed that they should go to see Hugh
MacConnell's new comedy, "Bog Lights."
"It's really quite the best thing MacConnell's done,"
he explained as they got into a hansom.
"It's tremendously well put on, too.
Florence Merrill and Cyril Henderson.
But Hilda Burgoyne's the hit of the piece.
Hugh's written a delightful part for her,
and she's quite inexpressible. It's been on
only two weeks, and I've been half a dozen times
already. I happen to have MacConnell's box
for tonight or there'd be no chance of our
getting places. There's everything in seeing
Hilda while she's fresh in a part. She's apt to
grow a bit stale after a time. The ones who
have any imagination do."
"Hilda Burgoyne!" Alexander exclaimed mildly.
"Why, I haven't heard of her for--years."
Mainhall laughed. "Then you can't have
heard much at all, my dear Alexander.
It's only lately, since MacConnell and his
set have got hold of her, that she's come up.
Myself, I always knew she had it in her.
If we had one real critic in London--but what
can one expect? Do you know, Alexander,"--
Mainhall looked with perplexity up into the
top of the hansom and rubbed his pink cheek
with his gloved finger,--"do you know, I sometimes
think of taking to criticism seriously myself.
In a way, it would be a sacrifice;
but, dear me, we do need some one.
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