Eleonora Duse, for whom our Nell had the most ardent admiration, was rarely able, by reason of her frail health, to grace festive occasions after her work; but Joe had one or two interesting meetings with her during the season that she rented one of the theatres that he managed and we were all present together at her pathetic performance of the _Dame aux Camelias_; the next night we witnessed Sarah Bernhardt in the same rôle, and Joe gives an able comparison of the two performances in _Coasting Bohemia_. On the latter occasion a note came round to Nell from the stage saying: “To-night I play for you.” And the promise was well kept. Speaking of Sarah Bernhardt, I recall a happening of the days before Joe was entitled to the consideration due to a theatrical manager; he had obtained a promise from the famous lady that she would lunch with us in our quiet home and we bade to meet her not by any means our “second-best” friends--to quote a huffed English actor regarding the guests of another evening. We waited an hour with a patient party and then Joe hastened with a cab to fetch the lady, only to be told that she had forgotten the engagement and was in her bath preparing to keep another. I need not perhaps record that Joe’s wit was equal to the occasion in pacifying our outraged guests. He and Sarah became firm friends later, and she had Joe’s _King Arthur_ translated into French with a view to playing the part of _Lancelot_; but this intention was never carried out. So many and various are the memories which crowd upon me connected with the stage that it is quite impossible for me to sift and record them without undue risk of boring any readers I may have. Suffice it to say that I think, of his many occupations, the theatre, whether in writing for it or in labouring at productions upon it, was the one which most entranced and held Joe. Not only did he love every detail of the work, but it brought him in daily contact with all sorts and conditions of men and women, taxed his powers as a leader of them and gave him hourly opportunity for the exercise of his humanizing and inspiring gift: that highest kind of humour which needs no preparation, but is evoked by every little passing incident and has its real might in the love of mankind. Perhaps I may here quote a portion of an American interviewer’s account of a talk with Henry Irving, sent to Joe by J. L. Toole during one of his old friend’s long tours in the United States. “THE WITTIEST MAN IN ENGLAND.” “Whom do you consider the wittiest man in England to-day?” “Well, in my opinion, the greatest of our wits is a man of whom very little is known out here. He is Comyns Carr, who wrote _King Arthur_ for me.” “He is a theatrical manager in London, is he not?” “Yes, at the present he is, but he is a distinguished man in literature as well. A polished essayist and the most sparkling man I have ever met. As an extemporaneous speaker he is delightful.” “Is he an Irishman?”