“Now, Mr. Dexter, what can you do for us?” inquired our preceptor, and George Dexter, who had been sniggering rather basely at Mr. Smith, leapt lightly to the platform. “‘Billy’s Rose,’ by G. R. Sims!” he said, and instantly plunged into that very pathetic and world-famous recitation. He accompanied it with a great deal of gesture, both of legs and arms, and at the end, when the rose is given to the angel Billy he suddenly snatched his carnation out from under his coat, where he had concealed it, and held the flower aloft with an expression of radiant and beatific excitement. He remained in this position for some moments, and I believe rather expected that Mr. Merridew was going to applaud; but he didn’t. All the great man said was: “You don’t finish with a conjuring trick, my dear Mr. Dexter. The rose is a thing of the spirit. I have the honour to know the poet who wrote those beautiful verses and the rose is, as it were, allegorical—an essence of the soul. And your mannerisms are thoroughly bad and amateurish. You’ve walked at least a quarter of a mile since you began. You are too aggressive, too defiant, too noisy. You tear a passion to tatters, Mr. Dexter. You must learn to serve your apprenticeship in a humble and chastened spirit. You have been in a bad school and there is much to undo.” Of course, though I still hated Dexter, I was really sorry for this, because I felt it would knock all the life out of him at the very start of his career. While he turned exceedingly pale and dropped his carnation on the floor and returned to us, as though he wished to shelter himself from the bitter criticism of the professor, he was not really crushed. In fact, he whispered to me the insulting word “fathead” as he rejoined us; and I knew that he and Mr. Merridew would be deadly enemies from that night forward. Then Harold Crowe and Wilford Gooding asked if they might perform together, and Mr. Merridew permitted it; but when he found that they proposed to imitate those world-renowned music-hall entertainers, known as the “Two Macs,” he stopped them. “No, gentlemen,” he said, “far be it from me to quarrel with the ‘Two Macs.’ They are genuine humourists, and their songs and dances and thoroughly English fun have often entertained me; but we are not here to emulate the vagaries of eccentric original comedians. Our purpose is to learn to walk first before we run, and we can develop our personal genius afterwards—if we have any.” Unfortunately, Crowe and Gooding could do nothing but imitate the “Two Macs,” so they lost their chance for that evening; and then Leonard Brightwin took his place on the stage and recited Antony’s great speech from _Julius Cæsar_.