Now I felt that this act was a real charity, for I knew poor Carey had never received such a chance in all his theatrical days—years, I should say; for he was well on the shady side of forty. I was amazed, dumb-founded, when Carey refused it, absolutely, positively refused it,—Carey? What could explain this astounding fact? There was an odd twinkle in his eye, and presently the truth leaked out. He had just married a pretty, young girl, and—and—well, he had promised to quit the stage; that was the whole of it. But Carey suited me exactly, and I did not give up. I told him it was all nonsense; his wife would be glad enough for him to accept the position. Carey evidently began to waver; the old love for his profession threatened to out-weigh that other love which had crept into his heart. However, it was finally determined that I should call upon his wife and submit the matter to her decision. I found her really young and really pretty, but, also, really in earnest. Carey could not go, that was certain; at the very first mention of the subject, she burst into tears. There was nothing left for me except to retreat, which I did with many apologies. Then, to soften my despair, Carey told me he knew of a person, one Boydell, whom he thought would be glad to fill the position. A few days after, Carey brought him up and gave me an introduction. A tall man he was, six feet-one or two, with a fine presence, heightened by a peculiar dignity of manner and voice. There was dramatic power stamped upon his English face, with its square, massive jaw, firm mouth, and deep-set eyes. I had no idea of Boydell’s age. I could not have guessed it by fifteen years one way or the other. He was one of those singular individuals who might be twenty-five, thirty-five, or fifty. There were a few wrinkles about his bronzed features, but they were surely not the wrinkles of time. His thick, brown hair was combed straight back, and hung down behind his ears. His dress was what might be called the shabby-genteel. Black from head to foot, nothing in it was new, and one would almost think nothing ever had been new. The garments had apparently existed in just their present condition of wear from time immemorial. The coat was shiny across the back, and a trifle small too, as though it had originally been cut for a man of less length both in body and arms. On his feet he wore queer, English shoes, with broad spreading soles, and the extra space at the toes turned up after the fashion of a rocker. A silk hat, bell-crowned, with curved rim, such as we see in pictures of Beau Brummel, was set well back upon his head.