I was acting as stage-manager in the intervals of my part, when I noticed Mr. Clinton (not the ex-Prince, but his father, the surgeon) get up, and hastily leave his place among the spectators.  But just as I was wondering at this, I was recalled to business by delay on the part of Bobby, who ought to have been on (with the lights down) as the Twelfth Traveller.

I found him at the left wing, with all the twelve hats fitted one over another, the whole pile resting on a chair.

“Bob, what are you after?  You ought to be on.”

“All right,” said Bob, “Philip knows.  He’s lashing his tail and doing some business till I’m ready.  Help me to put this cushion under my cloak for a hump-back, will you?  I didn’t like the twelfth hat, it’s too like the third one, so I’m going on as a Jew Pedlar.  Give me that box.  Now!” And before I could speak a roar of applause had greeted Bobby as he limped on in his twelve hats, crying, “Oh tear, oh tear! dish ish the tarkest night I ever shaw.”

But either we acted unusually well, or our audience was exceptionally kind, for it applauded everything and everybody till the curtain fell.

* * * * *

“Behind the scenes” is always a place of confusion after amateur theatricals; at least it used to be with us.  We ran hither and thither, lost our every-day shoes, washed the paint from our faces, and mislaid any number of towels, and combs, and brushes, ate supper by snatches, congratulated ourselves on a successful evening, and were kissed all around by Granny, who came behind the scenes for the purpose.

All was over, and the guests were gone, when I gave an invitation to the others to come and make lemon-brew over my bedroom fire as an appropriate concluding festivity. (It had been suggested by Bobby.) I had not seen Philip for some time, but we were all astonished to hear that he had gone out.  We kept his “brew” hot for him, and Charles and Bobby were both nodding—­though they stoutly refused to go to bed,—­when his step sounded in the corridor, and he knocked and came hastily in.

Everybody roused up.

“Oh, Philip, we’ve been wondering where you were!  Here’s your brew, and we’ve each kept a little drop, to drink your good health.”

("Mine is all pips,” observed Bobby as a parenthesis.) But Philip was evidently thinking of something else.

“Isobel,” he said, standing by the table, as if he were making a speech, “I shall never forget your coming after me to-day.  I told you you had the temper of an angel.”

“So did I,” said Alice.

“Hear! hear!” said Bobby, who was sucking his pips one by one and laying them by—­“to plant in a pot,” as he afterwards explained.

“You not only saved the theatricals,” continued Philip, “you saved my life I believe.”

No “situation” in the play had been half so startling as this.  We remained open-mouthed and silent, whilst Philip sat down as if he were tired, and rested his head on his hands, which were dirty, and stained with something red.