"It's only a question of time with H. G.," continued my friend. "Art is long, you know--derned long--and it may be a year before I paint my great picture, but after that Smith works in lead harness." He used the poker freely, and more and more his flow of hopes turned a shade of sentiment to Sarah Jane, who smiled broader and broader, showing teeth of healthy whiteness. At last I withdrew and sought my room, which was H. G.'s also, and his studio. I had gone with a candle round the walls whereon were tacked studies and sketches, finding here and there a bit of real merit among the profusion of trash, when the door burst open and my friend entered, kicked off his boots and trousers, and walked up and down at a sort of quadrille step, singing: "'Yes, it's the cottage of me love; You bet, it's the cottage of me love,' "and, what's more, H. G. has just had his genteel goodnight kiss; and when and where is the good old bar-keep?" I checked his exuberance as best I might, knowing full well that the quiet and elegant dispenser of neat and mixed beverages hearing this inquiry would put in an appearance in person and offer a few remarks designed to provoke ill-feeling. So I at last got Smith in bed and the lamp out. All was quiet for a few moments, and when I had almost gotten asleep I heard my room-mate in low tones say to himself,-- "Married, by the Rev. Gospel, our talented California artist, Mr. H. G. Smith, to Miss Sarah Jane Copples. No cards." A pause, and then with more gentle utterance, "and that's what's the matter with H. G." Slowly from this atmosphere of art I passed away into the tranquil land of dreams. [From _Mountaineering in the Sierra Nevada_, by Clarence King. Copyright, 1871, by James R. Osgood & Co. Copyright, 1902, by Charles Scribner's Sons.] THE THÉÂTRE FRANÇAIS HENRY JAMES