Madam,” said Mr. Daly, the manager, in his politest style, “no one could regret the occurrence more than myself”--he pronounced the word “meself”--“especially as you say it has hurt your feelings. Do n't I know what feelings are?”--he pronounced the word “failings,” which tended in some measure to alter the effect of the phrase, though his friends would have been inclined to assert that its accuracy was not thereby diminished. “I have been grossly insulted, sir,” said Mrs. Siddons. “Grossly insulted,” echoed Mr. Siddons. He played the part of echo to his stately wife very well indeed. “And it took place under your roof, sir,” said the lady. “Your roof,” echoed the husband. “And there's no one in the world sorrier than myself for it,” said Mr. Daly. “But I do n't think that you should take a joke of the college gentlemen so seriously.” “Joke?” cried Mrs. Siddons, with a passion that caused the manager, in the instinct of self-preservation to jump back. “Joke, sir!--a joke passed upon Sarah Siddons! My husband, sir, whose honour I have ever upheld as dearer to me than life itself, will tell you that I am not accustomed to be made the subject of ribald jests.” “I do n't know the tragedy that that quotation is made from,” remarked Mr. Daly, taking out his snuff-box and tapping it, affecting a coolness which he certainly was far from possessing; “but if it's all written in that strain I'll bring it out at Smock Alley and give you an extra benefit. You never spoke anything better than that phrase. Pray let us have it again, madam--'my husband, sir,' and so forth.” Mrs. Siddons rose slowly and majestically. Her eyes flashed as she pointed a shapely forefinger to the door of the greenroom, saying in her deepest tones: “Sir! degrade the room no longer by your presence. You have yet to know Sarah Siddons.” “Sarah Siddons,” murmured the husband very weakly. He would have liked to maintain the stand taken up by his wife, but he had his fears that to do so would jeopardise the success of his appearance at the manager's treasury, and Mr. Siddons now and again gave people to understand that he could not love his wife so well loved he not the treasury more. Mr. Daly laughed. “Faith, Mrs. Siddons,” said he, “'t is a new thing for a man to be ordered out of his own house by a guest. I happen to be the owner of this tenement in Smock Alley, in the city of Dublin, and you are my guest--my honoured guest, madam. How could I fail to honour a lady who, in spite of the fact of being the greatest actress in the world, is still a pattern wife and mother?” Mrs. Siddons was visibly softening under the balmy brogue of the Irishman. “It is because I am sensible of my duties to my husband and my children that I feel the insult the more, sir,” she said, in a tone that was still tragic.