He hurried off to the theatre and found Colman in his most disagreeable mood. The actor and actress who had resigned their parts were just those to whom he was looking, Colman declared, to pull the play through. He could not, however, blame them, he frankly admitted. They were, he said, dependent for a livelihood upon their association with success on the stage, and it could not be otherwise than prejudicial to their best interests to be connected with a failure. This was too much, even for the long suffering Goldsmith. “Is it not somewhat premature to talk of the failure of a play that has not yet been produced, Mr. Colman?” he said. “It might be in respect to most plays, sir,” replied Colman; “but in regard to this particular play, I don't think that one need be afraid to anticipate by a week or two the verdict of the playgoers. Two things in this world are inevitable, sir: death and the damning of your comedy.” “I shall try to bear both with fortitude,” said Goldsmith quietly, though he was inwardly very indignant with the manager for his gratuitous predictions of failure--predictions which from the first his attitude in regard to the play had contributed to realise. “I should like to have a talk with Mrs. Abington and Woodward,” he added. “They are in the green room,” said the manager. “I must say that I was in hope, Dr. Goldsmith, that your critical judgment of your own work would enable you to see your way to withdraw it.” “I decline to withdraw it, sir,” said Goldsmith. “I have been a manager now for some years,” said Colman, “and, speaking from the experience which I have gained at this theatre, I say without hesitation that I never had a piece offered to me which promised so complete a disaster as this, sir. Why, 'tis like no other comedy that was ever wrote.” “That is a feature which I think the playgoers will not be slow to appreciate,” said Goldsmith. “Good Lord! Mr. Colman, cannot you see that what the people want nowadays is a novelty?” “Ay, sir; but there are novelties and novelties, and this novelty of yours is not to their taste.'T is not a comedy of the pothouse that's the novelty genteel people want in these days; and mark my words, sir, the bringing on of that vulgar young boor--what's the fellow's name?--Lumpkin, in his pothouse, and the unworthy sneers against the refinement and sensibility of the period--the fellow who talks of his bear only dancing to the genteelest of tunes--all this, Dr. Goldsmith, I pledge you my word and reputation as a manager, will bring about an early fall of the curtain.” “An early fall of the curtain?” “Even so, sir; for the people in the house will not permit another scene beyond that of your pothouse to be set.” “Let me tell you, Mr. Colman, that the Three Pigeons is an hostelry, not a pothouse.” “The playgoers will damn it if it were e'en a Bishop's palace.”