“’The drama pure and simple,
Is forgot, in straining at the moral.’ 
“Is that any better?” (To the audience.)

“Yes, I think it is,” said Polly, “but I do believe it’s time to talk more elegantly, Jasper.  It is due to the people in the private boxes, you know.”

“Oh! the boxes are to have things all right before the play is over; never you fear, Polly,” said Jasper.

“’A poor presentment,
You will say we give;
But cry you mercy, Sirs, and’”?

“I don’t like ‘cry you mercy,’” announced Ben slowly, “because it doesn’t seem to mean anything.”

“Oh! don’t cut that out,” exclaimed Polly, clasping her hands and rushing up to Ben.  “That’s my pet phrase; you mustn’t touch that, Bensie.”

“But it doesn’t mean anything,” reiterated Ben in a puzzled way.

“Who cares?” cried Jasper defiantly.  “A great many expressions that haven’t the least significance are put in a thing of this sort.  Padding, you know, my dear sir.”

“Oh!” said Ben literally, “I didn’t know as you needed padding.  All right, if it is necessary.”  “It’s antique, and perfectly lovely, and just like Shakespeare,” cried Polly, viewing Ben in alarm.

“Oh! let the Bard of Avon have one say in this production,” cried Clare.  “Go on, do, with your ‘cry you mercy.’  What’s next, Jap?”

“Are you willing, Ben?” asked Jasper, with a glance at Polly.

“Ye—­es,” said Ben, also gazing at the rosy face and anxious eyes, “it can go as padding, I suppose.”

“Oh!  I am so glad,” exclaimed Polly in glee, and dancing around the room.  “And you won’t be sorry, I know, Bensie; the audience will applaud that very thing I’m almost sure,” which made Jasper sternly resolve something on the spot.

“Well, I shall never be through at this rate,” he said, whirling over the manuscript to find his place.  “Oh! here I am: 

“’But cry you mercy, Sirs and ladies fair,
We aim but to be dragons,
Not mortals posing for effect. 
We have a princess, to be sure’”?

“I should think we have,” interrupted Clare with a glance over at the sofa.  “Goodness me, she’s fast asleep!”

“Poor little thing, she is tired to death,” cried Polly remorsefully, while they all rushed over to the heap of lace and spangles, blissfully oblivious of “prologues.”

“Do let her sleep through this piece of stupidity,” said Jasper, bundling up another satin skirt that Mrs. Whitney had loaned for Polly to make a choice from.  “There,” putting it under the yellow head, “we’ll call her when the dragons come on.”

“Take care,” cried Polly, with intercepting hand, “that’s Auntie’s lovely satin gown.”

“Beg pardon,” said Jasper, relinquishing it speedily.  “Here’s the sofa pillow, after all,” dragging it from its temporary retirement under the theatrical debris.  “Now let’s get back to work; time is going fast.”  In a lowered voice: