The request was instantly seconded by a roar of applause from every part of the house, followed by laughter. From that point onward the house was chiefly concerned with the fortunes of the fishy-eyed young gentleman. At his next entrance, disguised as a conspirator, he was welcomed with enthusiasm, his passing away regretted loudly. At the fall of the curtain, the tenor, furious, rushed up to him, and, shaking a fist in his face, demanded what he meant by it. “I wasn't doing anything,” explained the fishy-eyed young man. “You went off sideways!” roared the tenor. “Well, you told me not to look at you,” explained meekly the fishy-eyed young gentleman. “I must go off somehow. I regard you as a very difficult man to please.” At the final fall of the curtain the house appeared divided as regarded the merits of the opera; but for “Goggles” there was a unanimous and enthusiastic call, and the while we were dressing a message came for “Goggles” that Mr. Hodgson wished to see him in his private room. “He can make a funny face, no doubt about it,” commented one gentleman, as “Goggles” left the room. “I defy him to make a funnier one than God Almighty's made for him,” responded the massive gentleman. “There's a deal in luck,” observed, with a sigh, another, a tall, handsome young gentleman possessed of a rich bass voice. Leaving the stage door, I encountered a group of gentlemen waiting upon the pavement outside. Not interested in them myself, I was hurrying past, when one laid a hand upon my shoulder. I turned. He was a big, broad-shouldered fellow, with a dark Vandyke beard and soft, dreamy eyes. “Dan!” I cried. “I thought it was you, young 'un, in the first act,” he answered. “In the second, when you came on without a moustache, I knew it. Are you in a hurry?” “Not at all,” I answered. “Are you?” “No,” he replied; “we don't go to press till Thursday, so I can write my notice to-morrow. Come and have supper with me at the Albion and we will talk. You look tired, young 'un.” “No,” I assured him, “only excited--partly at meeting you.” He laughed, and drew my arm through his. CHAPTER V. HOW ON A SWEET GREY MORNING THE FUTURE CAME TO PAUL. Over our supper Dan and I exchanged histories. They revealed points of similarity. Leaving school some considerable time earlier than myself, Dan had gone to Cambridge; but two years later, in consequence of the death of his father, of a wound contracted in the Indian Mutiny and never cured, had been compelled to bring his college career to an untimely termination.