The air inside was full of the hum of talk, and the whole crowd had a homogeneous, almost a family air, as though the contents of one great London _salon_ had been poured into the theatre.

Everybody seemed to know everybody else; there were politicians, and artists, and writers of books, known and unknown; there were fair women and wise women and great ladies; and there was that large substratum of faithful, but comparatively nameless, persons on whom a successful manager learns to depend with some confidence on any first night of importance.
And this was a first night of exceptional interest.

So keen, indeed, had been the competition for tickets that many of those present had as vague and confused an idea of how they came to be among the favoured multitude pouring into the _Calliope_ as a man in a street panic has of the devices by which he has struggled past the barrier which has overthrown his neighbour.

Miss Bretherton's first appearance in _Elvira_ had been the subject of conversation for weeks past among a far larger number of London circles than generally concern themselves with theatrical affairs.
Among those which might be said to be within a certain literary and artistic circumference, people were able to give definite grounds for the public interest.

The play, it was said, was an unusually good one, and the progress of the rehearsals had let loose a flood of rumours to the effect that Miss Bretherton's acting in it would be a great surprise to the public.