“Of course, so far as I am personally concerned,” went on the tenor, “it is immaterial. I draw the same salary whether I'm on the stage five minutes or an hour. But when you have a man of my position in the cast, and give him next to nothing to do--well, the public are disappointed.” “Most naturally,” I commented. “The lover,” whispered the tenor, noticing the careless approach towards us of the low comedian, “that's the character they are thinking about all the time--men and women both. It's human nature. Make your lover interesting--that's the secret.” Waiting for the horses to be put to, I became aware of the fact that I was standing some distance from the others in company with a tall, thin, somewhat oldish-looking man. He spoke in low, hurried tones, fearful evidently of being overheard and interrupted. “You'll forgive me, Mr. Kelver,” he said--“Trevor, Marmaduke Trevor. I play the Duke of Bayswater in the second act.” I was unable to recall him for the moment; there were quite a number of small parts in the second act. But glancing into his sensitive face, I shrank from wounding him. “A capital performance,” I lied. “It has always amused me.” He flushed with pleasure. “I made a great success some years ago,” he said, “in America with a soda-water syphon, and it occurred to me that if you could, Mr. Kelver, in a natural sort of way, drop in a small part leading up to a little business with a soda-water syphon, it might help the piece.” I wrote him his soda-water scene, I am glad to remember, and insisted upon it, in spite of a good deal of opposition. Some of the critics found fault with the incident, as lacking in originality. But Marmaduke Trevor was quite right, it did help a little. Our return journey was an exaggerated repetition of our morning drive. Our low comedian produced hideous noises from the horn, and entered into contests of running wit with 'bus drivers--a decided mistake from his point of view, the score generally remaining with the 'bus driver. At Hammersmith, seizing the opportunity of a block in the traffic, he assumed the role of Cheap Jack, and, standing up on the back seat, offered all our hats for sale at temptingly low prices. “Got any ideas out of them?” asked Hodgson, when the time came for us to say good-night. “I'm thinking, if you don't mind,” I answered, “of going down into the country and writing the piece quietly, away from everybody.” “Perhaps you are right,” agreed Hodgson. “Too many cooks--Be sure and have it ready for the autumn.”