“Of course,” interposed the wife again, “his high-pitched voice is against him, but that’s his misfortune, not his fault. Also you may think that he’s left it rather late to take up with elocution. If we’d ever had any children of our own—” “I really think,” said the girl, “that we must get on with the lesson. Now, sir, if you please. ‘Give others the flags.’” The _Era_ had slipped from the Professor’s red face, and the swollen, poached-egg eyes moved, the heavy eyelids made one or two reluctant efforts to unclose. The room, Erb thought, looked as though it were troubled by opposing forces, one anxious to keep it neat and keep it comfortable, the other with entirely different views, and baulking these efforts with some success. Erb saw the household clearly and felt a desire to range himself on the side of order. “Good evening,” he said, when the leaden eyelids had decided to open. “Having your little nap, sir?” The Professor sat up, kneading his eyes and then rubbing his white hair violently. “I have been,” he said, in a voice that would have sounded important if it had not been hoarse, “making a brief excursion into the land of dreams.” He clicked his tongue. “And a devil of a mouth I’ve got on me, too.” He rose heavily and went to a bamboo table where two syphons were standing, tried them, and found they were empty. “A curse,” he said, “on both your houses.” “I’ve called about some lessons.” “Lessons!” repeated the Professor moodily. “That I, Reginald Danks, should be reduced to this! I, who might have been at the Lyceum at the present moment but for fate and Irving. How many lessons,” he asked with a change of manner, “do you require, laddie?” “I thought about six,” said Erb. “Make it a dozen. We offer thirteen for the price of twelve.” “What would that number run me into? I want them more for public speaking than anything else.” “We shall do the whole bag of tricks for you,” said the Professor, placing an enormous hand on Erb’s shoulder, “for a mere trifle.” “Who is ‘we?’” “Rather should you say, ‘To whom is it that you refer?’ In this self-appointed task of imparting the principles of voice production and elocution to the—to the masses,” the Professor seemed to restrain himself forcibly from using a contumelious adjective, “I have the advantage of valuable assistance from my daughter. Her system is my system, her methods are my methods, her rules are my rules. If at any time I should be called away on professional business,” here the Professor passed his hand over his lip, “my daughter, Rosalind, takes my place. What is your age?” Erb gave the information. “Ah,” the Professor sighed deeply, “in ’74 I was with Barry Sullivan doing the principal towns in a repertoire. No, I’m telling you a lie. It was not in ’74. It was in the autumn of ’73. I played Rosencrantz and the First Grave-digger—an enormous success.” “Which?”