Just then they drove up to the Duke of York's, so Alexander did not
commit himself, but followed Mainhall into the theatre. When they
entered the stage-box on the left the first act was well under way, the
scene being the interior of a cabin in the south of Ireland. As they sat
down, a burst of applause drew Alexander's attention to the stage. Miss
Burgoyne and her donkey were thrusting their heads in at the half door.
"After all," he reflected, "there's small probability of her recognizing
me. She doubtless hasn't thought of me for years." He felt the
enthusiasm of the house at once, and in a few moments he was caught up
by the current of MacConnell's irresistible comedy. The audience
had come forewarned, evidently, and whenever the ragged slip of a
donkey-girl ran upon the stage there was a deep murmur of approbation,
every one smiled and glowed, and Mainhall hitched his heavy chair a
little nearer the brass railing.
"You see," he murmured in Alexander's ear, as the curtain fell on
the first act, "one almost never sees a part like that done without
smartness or mawkishness. Of course, Hilda is Irish,--the Burgoynes have
been stage people for generations,--and she has the Irish voice. It's
delightful to hear it in a London theatre. That laugh, now, when she
doubles over at the hips--who ever heard it out of Galway? She saves
her hand, too. She's at her best in the second act. She's really
MacConnell's poetic motif, you see; makes the whole thing a fairy tale.