The Mayor said most of the things that one would have expected him to say: what a distinguished company, what a pleasure for the town to have a live theatre again, and so on. From his speech there emerged something that I had not known, the kind of thing that David would not think to remember to tell me: it seemed that although the Arts Council had done its usual small best, most of the money for the enterprise had been provided by a wealthy American lady who fancied herself to be in some way related to Garrick. She had apparently been an actress herself before the marriage that had left her with this vast sum. It was the kind of story that enchants me, it seems so unlikely, and so often happens. The theatre must, I think, be peculiarly prone to romantic aberrations of this kind, for in it people are always discarding the checks of common sense and allowing the more ridiculous elements in human nature to take over, the elements of gross vanity, or jealousy, or even generosity. I liked the idea of this Mrs. Von Blerke, who was not in fact present, though she was due to arrive in time for the opening night. Her gift explained to me the seemingly pointless gesture of building an expensive new theatre in this particular spot, which could not possibly, although small, be filled all the year round. An empty theatre, dedicated to the vanity of human kinship. Though this year, or so David assured me, it would be full: he thought people would travel from the ends of England to watch his performances, I think.