The practising of Bassanio and Portia was so very amusing that she fairly forgot herself in laughter.  So did everybody else; except Mrs. Sandford, who was intent upon draperies, and Preston whose hands held a burden of responsibility.  Hamilton was a quiet fellow enough in ordinary; but now nobody was more ready for all the life of the play.  He threw himself back into an attitude of irresolution and perplexity, with the letter in his hand which had brought the fatal news; that is, it was the make-believe letter, though it was in reality only the New York Evening Post.  And Daisy thought his attitude was very absurd; but they all declared it was admirable and exactly copied from the engraving.  He threw himself into all this in a moment, and was Bassanio at once; but Theresa was much too well disposed to laugh to imitate his example.  And then they all laughed at Theresa, who instead of looking grave and inquiring, as Portia should, at her lord’s unusual action and appearance, flung herself into position and out of position with a mirthfulness of behaviour wholly inconsistent with the character she was to personify.  How they all laughed!

“What is it, Daisy?” whispered Nora.

“Why, he has got a letter,”—­said Daisy.

“Is that newspaper the letter?”

“Make believe it is,” said Daisy.

“But what are they doing!”

“Why, this man, Bassanio, has just got a letter that says his dearest friend is going to be killed, because he owes money that he cannot pay; and as the money was borrowed for his own sake, of course he feels very badly about it.”

“But people are not killed because they cannot pay money,” said Nora.  “I have seen people come to papa for money, and they didn’t do anything to him because he hadn’t it.”

“No, but—­those were different times,” said Daisy—­“and Bassanio lived in a different country.  His friend owed money to a dreadful man, who was going to cut out two pounds of his flesh to pay for it.  So of course that would kill him.”

“O, look at Theresa now!” said Nora.

The young lady had brought her muscles into order; and being clever enough in her merry way, she had taken the look of the character and was giving it admirably.  It was hardly Theresa; her moveable face was composed to such an expression of simple inquiry and interest and affectionate concern.  The spectators applauded eagerly; but Nora whispered,

“What does she look like that, for?”

“Why, it’s the picture,” said Daisy.  “But what does she look so for?”

“She is Bassanio’s wife—­they have just got married; and she looks so because he looks so, I suppose.  She does not know what is in the letter.”

“Is he going to tell her?”

“Not in the picture—­” said Daisy, feeling a little amused at Nora’s simplicity.  “He did tell her in the story.”

“But why don’t we have all the story?” insisted Nora.