with real lace, dripping with semi-precious jewels—­what happens?  The cloak pushes forward and takes precedence of the wearer, a buzz arises, heads bob this way and that, opera-glasses are turned upon the wonderful cloak whose magnificence has destroyed the illusion of the play; and while its beauty and probable price are whispered over, the scene is lost, and ten to one the actress is oftener thought of as Miss So-and-So, owner of that wonderful cloak, than as Madame Such-an-One, heroine of the drama.

Extravagance is inartistic—­so for that reason I could wish for moderation in stage dressing.  Heavens, what a nightmare dress used to be to me!  For months I would be paying so much a week to my dressmaker for the gowns of a play.  I thought my heart would break to pieces, when, during the long run of “Divorce,” just as I had finished paying for five dresses, Mr. Daly announced that we were all to appear in new costumes for the one hundredth night.  I pleaded, argued, too, excitedly, that my gowns were without a spot or stain; that they had been made by the dressmaker he had himself selected, and he had approved of them, etc., and he made answer, “Yes, yes, I know all that; but I want to stir up fresh interest, therefore we must have something to draw the people, and they will come to see the new dresses.”

And then, in helpless wrath, I burst out with:  “Oh, of course!  If we are acting simply as dress and cloak models in the Fifth Avenue show room, I can’t object any longer.  You see, I was under the impression people came here to see us act your play, not to study our clothes; forgive me my error.”

For which I distinctly deserved a forfeit; but we were far past our unfriendly days, and I received nothing worse than a stern, “I am surprised at you, Miss Morris,” and at my rueful response, “Yes, so am I surprised at Miss Morris,” he laughed outright and pushed me toward the open door, bidding me hurry over to the dressmaker’s.  I had a partial revenge, however, for one of the plates he insisted on having copied for me turned out so hideously unbecoming that the dress was retired after one night’s wear, and he made himself responsible for the bill.

Sometimes a girl loses her chance at a small part that it is known she could do nicely, because some other girl can outdress her—­that is very bitter.  Then, again, so many plays now are of the present day, and when the terribly expensive garment is procured it cannot be worn for more than that one play, and next season it is out of date.  When the simplest fashionable gown costs $125, what must a ball gown with cloak, gloves, fan, slippers and all, come to?  There was a time when the comic artists joked about “the $10 best hat for wives.”  The shop that carried $10 best hats to-day would be mobbed; $20 and $30 are quite ordinary prices now.

So the young actress—­unless she has some little means, aside from a salary, a father and mother to visit through the idle months and so eke that salary out—­is bound to be tormented by the question of clothes; for she is human, and wants to look as well as those about her, and besides she knows the stage manager is not likely to seek out the poorest dresser for advancement when an opening occurs.