Collins has done a melodrama (a regular old-style melodrama), in which
there is a very good notion. I am going to act it, as an experiment, in
the children's theatre here--I, Mark, Collins, Egg, and my daughter
Mary, the whole _dram. pers._; our families and yours the whole
audience; for I want to make the stage large and shouldn't have room for
above five-and-twenty spectators. Now there is only one scene in the
piece, and that, my tarry lad, is the inside of a lighthouse. Will you
come and paint it for us one night, and we'll all turn to and help? It
is a mere wall, of course, but Mark and I have sworn that you must do
it. If you will say yes, I should like to have the tiny flats made,
after you have looked at the place, and not before. On Wednesday in this
week I am good for a steak and the play, if you will make your own
appointment here; or any day next week except Thursday. Write me a line
in reply. We mean to burst on an astonished world with the melodrama,
without any note of preparation. So don't say a syllable to Forster if
you should happen to see him.
Ever affectionately yours.
[Sidenote: Mr. Clarkson Stanfield, R.A.]