“An afterpiece instead of a comedy,” said Mr. Bertram. “Lovers’ Vows were at an end, and Lord and Lady Ravenshaw left to act My Grandmother by themselves. Well, to make you amends, Yates—especially if it had been my own Quackie at the heart of it, so to speak—I think we must raise a little theatre at Mansfield, and ask you to be our manager. Or, I can do the honors.”

The notion took hold of their imagination. Having so much leisure as to make almost any novelty a certain good, and with so much young lively talent and comic taste at their disposal, the novelty of acting was a delight. “Oh for the Ecclesford theatre and scenery to try something with.” Each sister could echo the wish; and Henry Crawford was quite alive at the idea.

“I really believe,” said he, “I could be fool enough at this moment to undertake any character that ever was written, from Shylock or Richard III down to the singing hero of a farce in his scarlet coat and cocked hat. I feel as if I could be anything or everything; as if I could rant and storm, or sigh or cut capers, in any tragedy or comedy in the English language. What should prevent us? Not these countenances, I am sure,” looking towards the Miss Bertrams; “and for a theatre, since we shall be only amusing ourselves, any room in this house might suffice.”

“We must have a curtain,” said Tom Bertram; “a few yards of green baize, and perhaps that may be enough. Oh! Mayhap we can move aside these infernal crates from Cairo that fill all space, and use them for building blocks, stacking one upon another to form a stage?”

“The horrid boxes are rather heavy, and I doubt mother would approve us going anywhere near them,” said Julia, with not a small amount of pique.

“Oh, quite enough,” cried Mr. Yates, “with only just a side wing or two run up, doors in flat, and three or four scenes to be let down; nothing more would be necessary on such a plan as this.”

“I believe we must be satisfied with less,” said Maria. “There would not be time, and other difficulties would arise. We must rather adopt Mr. Crawford’s views, and make the performance, not the theatre, our object. The best plays are independent of scenery. And truly, unless we are putting on a play about Cleopatra and the grand Nile, we would have to close our eyes to imagine anything otherwise in this house—”