“None else than the great Sarah herself, my boy,” replied the manager. “Saint Malachi! what did you mean by shouting out what you did, after that scene?” he added. “What did I shout?” asked Jimmy Blake. “I only ventured humbly to cry, 'Well done, Sally, my jewel'--what offence is there in that?” “Ay, by Saint Patrick, but there's much offence in 't,” cried Daly. “Mrs. Siddons sent for me to my dressing-room after the play, and there I found her pacing the green-room like a lioness in her cage, her husband, poor man, standing by as tame as the keeper of the royal beast.” A series of interested exclamations passed round the room, and the circle of heads about the table became narrower. “Mother o' Moses! She objected to my civil words of encouragement?” said Mr. Blake. “She declared that not only had she been insulted, but her husband's honour had been dragged in the mire, and her innocent children's names had been sullied.” “Faith, that was a Sally for you, Mr. Daly,” said young Home, the Dublin painter to whom Mrs. Siddons had refused to sit, assuring him that she could only pay such a compliment to Sir Joshua Reynolds. “Boys, may this be my poison if I ever put in a worse half hour,” cried Daly, as he raised a tumbler of punch and swallowed half the contents. “I 'd give fifty pounds to have been there,” said Home. “Think what a picture it would make!--the indignant Sarah, the ever courteous manager Daly, and the humble husband in the corner. What would not posterity pay for such a picture!” “A guinea in hand is worth a purse in the future,” said one of the college boys. “I wish I could draw a bill on posterity for the payment of the silversmith who made my buckles.” “Daly,” said Blake, “you're after playing a joke on us. Sally never took you to task for what I shouted from the Pit.” Mr. Daly became dignified--he had finished the tumbler of punch. He drew himself up, and, with one hand thrust into his waistcoat, he said: “Sir, I conceive that I understand as well as any gentleman present what constitutes the elements of a jest. I have just conveyed to you a statement of facts, sir. If you had seen Sarah Siddons as I left her--egad, she is a very fine woman--you would n't hint that there was much jest in the matter. Oh, lord, boys”--another jug of punch had just been brought in, and the manager was becoming genial once more--“Oh, lord, you should have heard the way she talked about the honour of her husband, as if there never had been a virtuous woman on the boards until Sarah Siddons arose!” “And was there one, Daly?” asked young Murphy, a gentleman from whom great things were expected by his college and his creditors.