Here followed more jam—­with the first taste of the powder: 

“I prefer you for my Philippa to any other actress, and shall do so still, even if you will not, or cannot, throw more vigor into the lines that need it.  I do not pretend to be as good a writer of plays as you are an actress [how naughty of him!], but I do pretend to be a great judge of acting in general. [He wasn’t, although in particular details he was a brilliant critic and adviser.] And I know how my own lines and business ought to be rendered infinitely better than any one else, except the Omniscient.  It is only on this narrow ground I presume to teach a woman of your gifts.  If I teach you Philippa, you will teach me Juliet; for I am very sure that when I have seen you act her, I shall know a vast deal more about her than I do at present.

“No great quality of an actress is absent from your performance.  Very often you have vigor.  But in other places where it is as much required, or even more, you turn limp.  You have limp lines, limp business, and in Act III. limp exits instead of ardent exits.”

Except in the actual word used, he was perfectly right.  I was not limp, but I was exhausted.  By a natural instinct, I had produced my voice scientifically almost from the first, and I had found out for myself many things, which in these days of Delsarte systems and the science of voice-production, are taught.  But when, after my six years’ absence from the stage, I came back, and played a long and arduous part, I found that my breathing was still not right.  This accounted for my exhaustion, or limpness and lack of vigor, as Charles Reade preferred to call it.

As for the “ardent” exits, how right he was!  That word set me on the track of learning the value of moving off the stage with a swift rush.  I had always had the gift of being rapid in movement, but to have a gift, and to use it, are two very different things.

I never realized that I was rather quick in movement until one day when I was sitting on a sofa talking to the famous throat specialist, Dr. Morell Mackenzie.  In the middle of one of his sentences I said:  “Wait a minute while I get a glass of water.”  I was out of the room and back so soon that he said, “Well, go and get it then!” and was paralyzed when he saw that the glass was in my hand and that I was sitting down again!

Consider! That was one of Charles Reade’s favorite expressions, and just hearing him say the word used to make me consider, and think, and come to conclusions—­perhaps not always the conclusions that he wished, but suggested by him.

In this matter of “ardent” exit, he wrote: