[Sidenote: A FLATTERING PROPOSAL] It was not till after the death of my beloved friend Charles Dickens that I became aware, through the publication of his letters, that it was at his suggestion Sir Edward had made this flattering proposal. In a letter from Broadstairs to Knebworth, he speaks of me in these terms: “Do you know Mary Boyle, daughter of the old Admiral?—because she is the very best actress I ever saw off the stage, and immeasurably better than a great many I have seen on it. I have acted with her in a country house in Northamptonshire, and am going to do so again next November. If you know her, I think she would be more than pleased to play, and by giving her something good in a farce, we could get her to do “Mrs Kitely.” In that case, my little sister-in-law would ‘go on’ for the second lady, and you could do without actresses, besides giving the thing a particular grace and interest. If we could get Mary Boyle, we would do _Used Up_, which is a delightful piece, as the farce. But maybe you know nothing about the said Mary, and in that case, I should like to know what you would think of doing.” These negotiations resulted in the engagement, which I gladly accepted, to go down to Knebworth and tread the same stage with such distinguished writers as “Boz” himself, John Forster, Mark Lemon (the editor of _Punch_), Douglas Jerrold, and such well-known artists as Frank Stone, John Leech, and Augustus Egg; while for my _confidante_ and companion I was promised the society of dear Georgina Hogarth. I was in the seventh heaven, for, as I have always said, theatrical business was the only business I liked, theatrical properties the only property I possessed. Then the interesting correspondence with the manager, the only despot I ever tolerated, the meetings for rehearsal, the conferences on the costume. I found myself indeed in my real element, but—when are there no buts to any bright prospects?—all of a sudden the conviction forced itself upon me that so great a delight was not in store, that some sorrow or mishap, or unforeseen obstacle, was hanging over my head, to prevent the consummation of this cherished scheme.