"
Just then they drove up to the Duke of York's,
so Alexander did not commit himself,
but followed Mainhall into the theatre.
When they entered the stage-box on the left the
first act was well under way, the scene being
the interior of a cabin in the south of Ireland.
As they sat down, a burst of applause drew
Alexander's attention to the stage. Miss
Burgoyne and her donkey were thrusting their
heads in at the half door. "After all,"
he reflected, "there's small probability of
her recognizing me. She doubtless hasn't thought
of me for years." He felt the enthusiasm of
the house at once, and in a few moments he
was caught up by the current of MacConnell's
irresistible comedy. The audience had
come forewarned, evidently, and whenever
the ragged slip of a donkey-girl ran upon the
stage there was a deep murmur of approbation,
every one smiled and glowed, and Mainhall
hitched his heavy chair a little nearer the
brass railing.
"You see," he murmured in Alexander's ear,
as the curtain fell on the first act,
"one almost never sees a part like that done
without smartness or mawkishness. Of course,
Hilda is Irish,--the Burgoynes have been
stage people for generations,--and she has the
Irish voice. It's delightful to hear it in a
London theatre. That laugh, now, when she
doubles over at the hips--who ever heard it
out of Galway? She saves her hand, too.
She's at her best in the second act.
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