At the light cost of a journey to Cambridge I
spent another two hours or so of sheer delight the other day seeing and hearing (one cannot say simply seeing, as in the case of an ordinary stage play) Ruth Draper. Miss Draper is, I believe, not coming to London during her present visit—which is a good deal the worse for London than the loss of any play now running, with perhaps two conceivable exceptions, would be. The secret of Miss Draper's amazing capacity, in her unique monologue sketches, to people the stage with non-existent figures no one, I suppose has ever quite discovered. Arnold Bennett, when asked once what was wrong with the modern stage, answered immediately with his inevitable stammer, " the actors and actresses have no b-brains." Certainly brains are responsible for a good deal with Miss Draper. The rest is just—Miss Draper.
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