Goldsmith walked away without another word, and joined his party, consisting of Johnson, Reynolds, Miss Reynolds, the Bunburys and Mary Horneck. Now that he had done all his work connected with the production of the play--when he had not allowed himself to be overcome by the niggardly behaviour of the manager in declining to spend a single penny either upon the dresses or the scenery, that parting sneer of Colman's almost caused him to break down. Mary Horneck perceived this, and hastened to say something kind to him. She knew so well what would be truly encouraging to him that she did not hesitate for a moment. “I am glad I am not going to the theatre to-night,” she said; “my dress would be ruined.” He tried to smile as he asked her for an explanation. “Why, surely you heard the way the cleaners were laughing at the humour of the play,” she cried. “Oh, yes, all the cleaners dropped their dusters, and stood around the boxes in fits of laughter. I overheard one of the candle-snuffers say that no play he had seen rehearsed for years contained such wit as yours. I also overheard another man cursing Mr. Col-man for a curmudgeon.” “You did? Thank God for that; 't is a great responsibility off my mind,” said Goldsmith. “Oh, my dear Jessamy Bride, I know how kind you are, and I only hope that your god-child will turn out a credit to me.” “It is not merely your credit that is involved in the success of this play, sir,” said Johnson. “The credit of your friends, who insisted on Colman's taking the play, is also at stake.” “And above all,” said Reynolds pleasantly, “the play must be a success in order to put Colman in the wrong.” “That is the best reason that could be advanced why its success is important to us all,” said Mary. “It would never do for Colman to be in the right. Oh, we need live in no trepidation; all our credits will be saved by Monday night.” “I wonder if any unworthy man ever had so many worthy friends,” said Goldsmith. “I am overcome by their kindness, and overwhelmed with a sense of my own unworthiness.” “You will have another thousand friends by Monday night, sir,” cried Johnson. “Your true friend, sir, is the friend who pays for his seat to hear your play.” “I always held that the best definition of a true friend is the man who, when you are in the hands of bailiffs, comes to see you, but takes care to send a guinea in advance,” said Goldsmith, and every one present knew that he alluded to the occasion upon which he had been befriended by Johnson on the day that “The Vicar of Wakefield” was sold. “And now,” said Reynolds, “I have to prove how certain we are of the future of your piece by asking you to join us at dinner on Monday previous to the performance.”