CHAPTER XVII.
STAGE WHISPERS.
When the consummate villain of melodrama mysteriously approaches the foot-lights, and, with a scowl at the front row of the pit, remarks: "I must dissemble," or something to that effect, it is certain that he is perfectly audible in all parts of the theatre in which he performs; and yet it is required of the personages nearest to him on the stage--let us say, the rival lover he has resolved to despatch and the beauteous heroine he has planned to betray--that they should pretend to be absolutely deaf to his observation, the manifest gravity of its bearing upon their interests and future happiness notwithstanding.
Moreover, we who are among the spectators are bound to credit this curious auricular infirmity on the part of the lover and the lady.

We can of course hear perfectly well the speech of their playfellow, and are thoroughly aware that from their position they must of necessity hear it at least as distinctly as we do.

Yet it is incumbent upon us to ignore our convictions and perceptions on this head.

For, indeed, the drama depends for its due existence and conduct upon a system of connivance and conspiracy, in which the audience, no less than the actors, are comprehended.

The makeshifts and artifices of the theatre have to be met half-way, and indulgently accepted.
The stage could not live without its whispers, which, after all, are only whispers in a non-natural sense.