"Of course, of course, I enjoy the comedy. Don't you want me to enjoy the comedy?" he said when I taxed him, and eyed me sidelong with his discomfiting grin. The doctor was a queer old man; not the least evidence of his queerness was the interest he displayed in our affairs. He watched us drill for "William Tell" and "Mrs. Tankerville's Tiara," day by day, appearing to find therein unfailing entertainment. To be sure he had little else to do; he had long retired from practice, and, as he said of himself, was the weak-minded victim of his own whims. With all his oddities, we were fond of him; and his advice and suggestions were a real help to such of us as took ourselves and our parts seriously. The stage was one of his many hobbies; he had collected a huge library of books relating to it; had seen all of the celebrated actors of his day and known not a few of them; and could recall Laura Keane in the very role which Muriel was now essaying. "Do you remember what she wore, Doctor?" Mazie asked him, characteristically enough, by the way. "White gauze, I think," said the old gentleman, considering. "Yes, it was white gauze, and a touch of green about it somewhere." "Huh! Touch o' green was a fig-leaf, I s'pose--hope so, anyhow!" said Mrs. Botlisch, and "wallopped" down another oyster. She _was_ a terrible old woman. "I don't know what we'd do without you, doctor," said Mazie precipitately. "You know so much about it--what we ought to do, I mean, and how the whole thing ought to go. It's ever so kind of you----" "Not at all--the kindness is on your side," said the doctor. He glanced about with a smile in which there lurked a whimsical melancholy. "I don't aspire to the post of guide, philosopher, and fr----" "Talkin' o' guides," old Mrs. Botlisch interrupted him. "Ever hear that story 'bout the English feller that went aroun' Niagry Falls with a guide, out to Table Rock an' Goat Island, and down under th' Falls an' everywheres, an' when they got through, he took an' wrote in th' visitors' book, 'Why am I like Desdemona?' That's th' white girl that married a nigger in one o' these here plays, you know. He took an' wrote, 'Why am I like Desdemona? Becuz----'" "Ahem!" interrupted Doctor Vardaman, with extraordinary vehemence. "You were asking me for the address of the man that sells make-up boxes, one of you the other day. I meant to bring it with me to-night, but forgot. Any time you want, you can stop at my house, and in case I'm out, ask Huddesley, I left it with him. It's Kryzowski--bowski--wowski--some such unpronounceable Russian name, and his shop is somewhere on Sixth Avenue, I think, but I can't exactly remember." All of which speech the doctor delivered in a rapid and vigorous outburst of words, not pausing until he was quite out of breath; and even then he had the air of one skirting by a hair's-breadth some desperate verge. "I'll stop in to-morrow," said J. B. "Huddesley isn't likely to get mixed up about it, is he?"