There goes the curtain.  What a stupid play!  Why did I come?  The damp will ruin my dress.  Oh, that horrid girl!  Well, of all the ridiculous acting I ever saw, this is the worst!  I should think they would be ashamed to put such people on the stage.  He is opening her fan.  A fan to-day! absurd!  I won’t look again.  How that man rants!  I’m sure I don’t know why I came:  I might have known how poor it would be.  Even I can see that Leicester and Mortimer have dresses at least a hundred years apart.  I wonder if their legs are stuffed?  Oh dear! that’s hardly proper.  What Dick can see to admire in that girl is beyond my comprehension.  Such airs and graces!—­all put on; and how she makes eyes at him!  I can feel it behind my back.

How absurdly Queen Elizabeth is dressed! and what a fright she is!  And I wore my new hat, too:  he said he liked blue so much.  I could just cry, I am so provoked.  It’s all her fault, I know.  Oh! the play!  Yes, Dudley is making love.  Ridiculous!  There, the curtain’s down at last, and—­what—!  Dick is getting up:  he looks as if he were saying good-bye.  There’s Lucy’s uncle:  he sits down beside her—­he must have brought her.  Oh, what a relief!  After all, it was very natural for Dick to take the vacant seat, he is so thoughtful always.  Lucy can talk pretty well sometimes, too.  If she only had some idea of dress!  There!  I’m sure Dick saw me, but of course I shall take no notice.

Upon my word, the young man next me is admiring the girl’s hair on the other side of me.  It’s hideous—­red as a carrot, and stuck on at that.  Thank Goodness! my hair hasn’t a tinge of red in it—­pure blonde cendre—­but I have to pay awfully to match it.  Wish I could tell that young fellow her hair is all stuck on.  Hark! the nice one says,

“Why, it is all her own—­I see it growing” “S-s-s-h!” says the other:  “she’ll hear you.”  “Loveliest hair I ever saw,” continues No. 1:  “pure gold, not a tinge of red—­” It’s my hair they are discussing.  What a nice fellow he is!  I’ll just turn a little away, so he can study that curl which really does grow out of my head.  It is worth all the trouble it gives me, for it makes the others seem so natural.  I declare, he is looking right at me:  suppose he should speak?  I should die!  Nonsense! he is bowing to a lady in the dress-circle.  I know he’d like to do something for me.  Brother Bob says girls can’t be too careful.  I might drop something.  Not my handkerchief—­that would be improper—­but my opera-glass case:  nothing could be said against that.  Oh my!  I haven’t used my glasses yet, I’m so near the stage.  I’ll look round the house; so here goes.  “Thank you, sir,” with my sweetest smile and such a nice flutter.  I saw him nudge his friend.

There goes the curtain again.  Mary queen of Scots:  I thought she was prettier.  Oh, the act is really over; I actually forgot everything but the stage.  My eyes are all wet.  But it won’t do to cry:  they would be red.  I don’t quite like some of the words they use, though—­they make one feel queer.  Now, why couldn’t they say “illegitimate child”?  It means just the same; besides, it’s longer.