"The spare parts will all be there,
Countess, and thanks for the word."
The elder Montague on the occasion of his calls often found time to
regale those present with anecdotes of Lawrence Barrett.
"A fine artist in his day, sir; none finer ever appeared in a hall
show."
And always about his once superb frock coat clung the scent of
forbidden beverages. On one such day he appeared with an untidy
sprouting of beard, accompanied by the talkative daughter.
"Pa's landed a part," she explained through the little window. "It's
one of those we-uns mountaineer plays with revenooers and feuds; one
of those plays where the city chap don't treat our Nell right--you
know. And they won't stand for the crepe hair, so pop has got to
raise a brush and he's mad. But it ought to give him a month or so,
and after that he may be able to peddle the brush again; you can
never tell in this business, can you, Countess?"
"It's most annoying," the old gentleman explained to the bench
occupants. "In the true art of the speaking stage an artificial
beard was considered above reproach. Nowadays one must descend to
mere physical means if one is to be thought worthy.
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