As he looked very hard at the tragedian, that gentleman felt called upon to reply. ‘I have no personal experience of anything of that kind,’ he said loftily. ‘Well, of course not; how should you?’ returned Sheridan blandly, but with a curve of the lip that seemed to say, ‘We are talking of men of genius.’ Perhaps his reference to his own weakness made him bitter. If it was so, the feeling was very transitory; it was with his most winning smile that he presently addressed his friend, ‘Come, Prester John, we can do nothing without you in this affair; surely you will not fail us.’ ‘I will have no responsibility in the matter,’ was the haughty reply. ‘I will not append my name to yonder list; I will not have it go forth to the world that I admit the genuineness of this production; I will not stamp it with my warranty; I will not——’ ‘Tut, tut, man,’ broke in the manager impatiently; ‘but you’ll act, you’ll act.’ ‘Well, yes, I will play Vortigern.’ ‘And Mrs. Siddons will play Edmunda?’ ‘Nay, sir, that is a question for herself. I cannot answer for Sarah; she always takes her own way.’ ‘To hear you talk one would think she was your wife instead of your sister,’ said the manager laughing. ‘Then the Country Girl’ (so Mrs. Jordan was called from her first success, which had been made in that piece) ‘shall be Flavia, who has to appear in man’s clothes; she loves to wear the breeches, as the poor Duke has long discovered. Well, we’ll take your friend Shakespeare’s play, Mr. Erin.’ And the manager rose from his chair with a yawn, like one who has concluded a distasteful business. ‘But, ahem! nothing has been said about terms,’ suggested the antiquary. ‘Terms? Does he mean money?’ said the manager, looking towards the tragedian with an air of extreme astonishment, as though he would say, ‘Can I believe my ears?’ ‘I am almost inclined to believe he does,’ replied the other, smiling for the first time. ‘But surely not money down; not ready money, he can’t mean that.’ The antiquary’s face unmistakably implied that he did. ‘Good heavens, Mr. Erin, who _has_ any ready money? I was just talking of the Duke of Clarence, has _he_ any ready money? Not a guinea—though you should threaten to drown him, like his namesake, in a butt of malmsey—to save his life.’ ‘The money might be paid out of the profits of the first night, and then half profits,’ suggested Mr. Erin. ‘Mere details—business,’ cried the manager disdainfully. ‘You must see Albany Wallis about all that. That’s a pretty face,’ he added, stopping abruptly beneath a picture on the wall and pointing to it—’a charming face.’ ‘It is the portrait of my niece, Margaret.’ ‘Aye, aye; love, faith, a pure soul in a fair body; a true heart, I am sure of it.’ His voice, freighted with genuine feeling, seemed to melt away in music. ‘She is in truth a good girl, Mr. Sheridan: the light of my poor house.’ ‘Take care of her, sir; be kind to her, lest, when it is too late, you rue it.’