"How remarkable!" was the first word that came from anybody's lips in
the darkened drawing-room.
"Very remarkable!" somebody else said. "Did you ever see such acting?"
"It has all been good," said a gentleman, Mr. Sandford; "but this _was_
remarkable."
"Thanks, I suppose you know to whose management," said the soft voice of
the lady of the house.
"Management is a good thing," said the gentleman; "but there was more
than management here, Mrs. Randolph. It was uncommon, upon my word! I
suppose my wife came in for the wings, but where did the _face_ come
from?"
"Daisy," said Mr. Randolph as he found his little daughter by his side
again,--"are you here?"
"Yes, papa."
Her father put his arm round her, as if to assure himself there were no
wings in the case.
"How do you like playing pictures?"
"I think I do not like them very much--" Daisy said sedately, nestling
up to her father's side.
"Not? How is that? Your performance has been much approved."
Daisy said nothing. Mr. Randolph thought he felt a slight tremor in the
little frame.
"Do you understand the allegory of this last tableau, Daisy?" Dr.
Sandford asked.
"I do not know what an allegory is, Dr. Sandford."
"What is the meaning of the representation, then, as you think of it?"
"This last picture?"
"Yes."
"It is a trial of skill, Dr. Sandford."
The room was still darkened, and the glance of intelligence and
amusement that passed between her friend and her father, their own eyes
could scarcely catch.
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