We had a delightful luncheon: much of my time was spent gazing at Miss Ellaline Terriss, who is even prettier off the stage than she is on.
When Mrs. Maude said she had been married for eleven years, with the proudest air in the world Mrs. Hicks remarked:
But certainly to look at Ellaline Terriss and Seymour Hicks made it seem impossible to believe that such could be the case. Hard work seems to agree with some people, and the incessant labour of the stage had left no trace on these young couples.
After luncheon the Maudes’ eldest little girl recited a French poem she had learnt at school, and it was quite ridiculous to see the small child already showing inherited talent. She was calm and collected, and when she had done and I congratulated her, she said in the simplest way in the world:
“I am going to be an actress when I am grown up, and so is Baby,” nodding her head at the other small thing of six, for the boy had not then arrived to usurp “Baby’s” place.
“Oh yes, so am I,” said little six-year-old. But when I asked her to recite something, she said:
“I haven’t learnt yet, but I shall soon.”
The Maudes were then eagerly looking forward to some weeks’ holiday which they always enjoy every autumn.
“I like a place where I need not wear gloves, and a hat is not a necessity,” she said. “I have so much dressing-up in my life that it is a holiday to be without it.”
Somehow the conversation turned on a wedding to which they had just been, and Winifred Emery exclaimed:
“I love going to weddings, but I always regret I am not the bride.”
“Come, come,” said her husband, “that would be worse than the Mormons. However many husbands would you have?”
“Oh, I always want to keep my own old husband, but I want to be the bride.” At which he laughed immoderately, and said:
“I declare, Winifred, you are never happy unless you are playing the leading lady.”
“Of course not,” she retorted; “women always appreciate appreciation.”
They were much amused when I told them the story of my small boy, who, aged about seven, was to go to a wedding as a page in gorgeous white satin with lace ruffles and old paste buttons.
“I don’t want to go,” he remarked; “I hate weddings”—for he had officiated twice before. Something he said leading me to suppose he was a little shy, I soothingly answered: