The next day, after luncheon, a general conclave assembled, of all the
young people, to determine the respective parts and hold a little
rehearsal by way of beginning. Mrs. Sandford was there too, but no other
grown person was admitted. Preston had certainly a troublesome and
delicate office in his capacity of manager.
"What are you going to give me, Preston?" said Mrs. Stanfield's lively
daughter, Theresa.
"You must be Portia."
"Portia? let me see--O that's lovely! How will you dress me, Mrs.
Sandford? I must be very splendid--I have just been married, and I am
worth any amount of splendour. Who's to be Bassanio?--"
"George Linwood, I think. He must have dark hair, you know."
"What are wigs good for?" said Theresa. "But he has nothing to do but to
hold the letter and throw himself backward--he's surprised, you know,
and people don't stand straight when they are surprised. Only that, and
to look at Portia. I guess he can do it. Once fix him and he'll
stay--that's one thing. How will you dress Portia, Mrs. Sandford? Ah,
let me dress her!"
"Not at all; you must be amenable to authority. Miss Stanfield, like
everybody else."
"But what will you put on her, Mrs. Sandford? The dress is Portia."
"No, by no means; you must look with a very delicate expression, Miss
Theresa. Your face will be the picture."
"My face will depend on my dress, I know. What will it be, Mrs.
Sandford?"
"I will give you a very heavy and rich purple brocade."
"Jewels?"
"Of course.
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