While yet an assistant-editor, I became a dramatic critic through the unwillingness of my chief to attend a theatrical matinée performance given, by some forlorn little society, now defunct, for the rejuvenation of the English drama. My notice of the performance amused him, and soon afterwards he suggested that I should do our dramatic column in his stead. Behold me a "first-nighter"! When, with my best possible air of nonchalance and custom, I sauntered into my stall on a Lyceum first night, I glanced at the first rows of the pit with cold and aloof disdain. "Don't you wish you were me?" I thought behind that supercilious mask. "You have stood for hours imprisoned between parallel iron railings. Many times I have stood with you. But never again, miserable pittites!" Nevertheless I was by no means comfortable in my stall. Around me were dozens of famous or notorious faces, the leading representatives of all that is glittering and factitious in the city of wealth, pleasure, and smartness. And everybody seemed to know everybody else. I alone seemed to be left out in the cold. My exasperated self-conscious fancy perceived in every haughty stare the enquiry: "Who is this whipper-snapper in the dress-suit that obviously cost four guineas in Cheapside?" I knew not a soul in that brilliant resort. During the intervals I went into the foyer and listened to the phrases which the critics tossed to each other over their liqueur-glasses. Never was such a genial confusion of "Old Chap," "Old Man," "Old Boy," "Dear Old Pal"! "Are they all blood-brothers?" I asked myself. The banality, the perfect lack of any sort of aesthetic culture, which characterized their remarks on the piece, astounded me. I said arrogantly: "If I don't know more about the art of the theatre than the whole crowd of you put together, I will go out and hang myself." Yet I was unspeakably proud to be among them. In a corner I caught sight of a renowned novelist whose work I respected. None noticed him, and he looked rather sorry for himself. "You and I . . .!" I thought. I had not attended many first nights before I discovered that the handful of theatrical critics whose articles it is possible to read without fatigue, made a point of never leaving their stalls. They were nobody's old chap, and nobody's old pal. I copied their behaviour.