“Of course not. I shall accept all you say in a strictly parliamentary sense, as the Pickwickians did upon a memorable occasion. And believe me, Mr. de Mortemar, when Garrick _redivivus_ appears, mine shall not be the pen to dispute his genius. In the meantime the public must be content with--ah, you are called, I see, Mr. de Mortemar.” A grimy-faced boy summoned the hero of the night, and the great De Mortemar was compelled to depart before he had extorted from the editor of the _Areopagus_ the smallest modicum of that praise for which his soul hungered. Mr. Desmond did not find himself alone with Miss St. Albans on the departure of Mr. De Mortemar. An elderly and bloated individual, in a very shabby gray suit of the Georgian era, hovered near, and surveyed the stranger ever and anon with an observant eye--an eye in which there was that watery lustre, by some physiologists supposed to betoken a partiality for strong drinks. Mr. Desmond remembered this gentleman as the parent of Pauline, and perceived in his shabby and faded appearance the decadence of the wealthy merchant of Lyons. “That’s rather a strong case of coals, a’nt it?” inquired this individual, indicating by a turn of his head that the departing De Mortemar was the subject of his discourse. “A case of coals?” repeated Laurence, doubtfully. “Yes, coals--nuts--barcelonas. The gorger’s awful coally on his own slumming, eh?” “I really am at a loss--” faltered the bewildered Laurence. “Don’t understand our patter, I suppose,” said M. Deschapelles, with an affable smile. “I mean to say that our friend the manager is rather sweet upon his own acting.” “Well, yes; Mr. De Mortemar appears to have considerable confidence in his own powers.” “Rather! Bless your heart, they’re always coming up to London like that, thinking they’re going to set the town in a blaze. There was William Harford--Howling Billy, they used to call him on the Northern Circuit--he came to London thinking he was going to put Macready’s nose out of joint--and didn’t. He was a wicked actor, he was. Satan will have him some day. A man can’t go on murdering Shakespeare as Howling Billy did without coming to Satan at last. “P’line! Deechappells!--Miss St. Albans! Mr. Jackson!--last scene!” roared the grimy-faced boy at this juncture, and Mr. Desmond was fain to bid his tutor’s daughter a brief good-night. He did not return to the front of the house. He had seen enough of Miss Alford’s acting to enable him to judge very fairly what she could do in the present, and what she might achieve in the future.