"In point of ability," whispered Kiss again to Mr. Lethbridge, "he could wipe out the authors he refers to. Excuse him; he is not a bit malicious or envious; but he has been stung, and he's writhing. If you heard me read the play that failed, you would require a dozen pocket-handkerchiefs. He slaved at it for eight months; and dreamt of success with empty platters on his table. I wonder if people know anything of this, or ever give it a thought? But it won't do to encourage him. It does him good to lash out; but we must not agree with him when he's wrong. In his new play there's a part I should like to take. He wrote it with me in his eye. All will come right; till the time arrives, he must grin and bear it. 'Suffering is the badge of all his tribe.' But there are big plums in the pudding, old fellow, and his day to pick 'em will come." Then he said aloud to the moody author: "Don't talk stuff and nonsense. You don't copy, as a rule; you're original, and I make my bow to you; but in what you said you _are_ copying the platitudinarians. What the public want are good plays, such as you can write, and good actors, who are not so scarce as croakers would have us believe. Cheer up, Linton! Where would be the glory of success if we could have it by whistling for it? Why, here we are at your very door, Leth! Now I call that singular." "Why?" asked Mr. Lethbridge. "Because we were coming to see you, to ask a favour." "Anything I can do," said Mr. Lethbridge, knocking at the door, "you may depend upon." "I told you so, Linton," said Kiss. The dramatic author brightened up for a moment, but fell again immediately into a state of despondency. "You're just in time for tea," said Mr. Lethbridge, kissing his wife, who opened the door for them. "Come in, come in. I've brought you some visitors, mother." "How do you do, Mr. Kiss?" said Mrs. Lethbridge, shaking hands with the always welcome actor. "Mother," said Mr. Lethbridge, "this is Mr. Linton, the celebrated author." "I am glad to see you, sir," said Mrs. Lethbridge, inwardly disturbed by the thought that she had not got out her best tea service. "Mr. Kiss, will you take Mr. Linton into the drawing-room? You are at home, you know. Fanny and Bob will be in presently. Phoebe is here, father." In point of fact, Phoebe, Fanny, and Bob, excited by the sound of the arrival of visitors, were on the first-floor landing, peeping over the balustrade to see who they were. "It's Mr. Kiss," whispered Fanny. "And a strange gentleman," whispered Bob. "Uncle Leth said," whispered Phoebe, "'the celebrated author.' I wonder if he's joking?" "They are going to stop to tea," whispered Fanny, "and mother has sent them into the drawing-room while she gets out the best tea-things. We must go and help her."