“And so you think the theatres have a moral influence?”

“Honestly”—­and I heard his good-natured laugh—­“I couldn’t swear to that.  But then we don’t know what New York might be without them.”

“I don’t know,” said Margaret, reflectively, “that my own good impulses, such as I have, are excited by anything I see on the stage; perhaps I am more tolerant, and maybe toleration is not good.  I wonder if I should grow worldly, seeing more of it?”

“Perhaps it is not the stage so much as the house,” Henderson replied, beginning to read the girl’s mind.

“Yes, it would be different if one came alone and saw the play, unconscious of the house, as if it were a picture.  I think it is the house that disturbs one, makes one restless and discontented.”

“I never analyzed my emotions,” said Henderson, “but when I was a boy and came to the theatre I well remember that it made me ambitious; every sort of thing seemed possible of attainment in the excitement of the crowded house, the music, the lights, the easy successes on the stage; nothing else is more stimulating to a lad; nothing else makes the world more attractive.”

“And does it continue to have the same effect, Mr. Henderson?”

“Hardly,” and he smiled; “the illusion goes, and the stage is about as real as the house—­usually less interesting.  It can hardly compete with the comedy in the boxes.”

“Perhaps it is lack of experience, but I like the play for itself.”

“Oh yes; desire for the dramatic is natural.  People will have it somehow.  In the country village where there are no theatres the people make dramas out of each other’s lives; the most trivial incidents are magnified and talked about—­dramatized, in short.”

“You mean gossiped about?”

“Well, you may call it gossip—­nothing can be concealed; everybody knows about everybody else; there is no privacy; everything is used to create that illusory spectacle which the stage tries to give.  I think that in the country village a good theatre would be a wholesome influence, satisfy a natural appetite indicated by the inquisition into the affairs of neighbors, and by the petty scandal.”

“We are on the way to it,” said Mr. Morgan, who sat behind them; “we have theatricals in the church parlors, which may grow into a nineteenth century substitute for the miracle-plays.  You mustn’t, Margaret, let Mr. Henderson prejudice you against the country.”

“No,” said the latter, quickly; “I was only trying to defend the city.  We country people always do that.  We must base our theatrical life on something in nature.”

“What is the difference, Mr. Henderson,” asked Margaret, “between the gossip in the boxes and the country gossip you spoke of?”

“In toleration mainly, and lack of exact knowledge.  It is here rather cynical persiflage, not concentrated public opinion.”

“I don’t follow you,” said Morgan.  “It seems to me that in the city you’ve got gossip plus the stage.”