home rejoicing to the bosom of his family. We trust that the success he won and deserved will encourage him to further efforts in this direction, and that on many future occasions he will charm and beguile us as he did last night. His feet are firmly planted on the ladder of fame, and he has only to go on as he has begun, to make his name a household word.'"
"Upon my word," said Mr. Lethbridge, "you almost take away my breath."
"But am I a true diviner?" asked Kiss.
"About the critics?"
"About the piece—your piece?"
"You are a wizard. I think if I were a dramatic author I should try to write precisely the kind of play you have described. You see, there is little else in my mind. But I am afraid you are wrong about the critics."
"Not at all," persisted Kiss. "Critics are human, like other people; and search the whole world through, you will find no song more popular than 'Home, sweet Home.'"
CHAPTER X.
'MELIA JANE, GODDESS OF POTS AND PANS.
While this conversation was proceeding there stood at a little distance from the speakers a man who had been walking arm in arm with the actor when the friends met, and who fell apart from Kiss when he clapped Mr. Lethbridge upon the shoulder. He was an anxious-eyed man, nervous, fidgety, with a certain tremulousness of limb and feature, denoting a troubled nature. His age was some thirty-five or thereabouts; his clothes were respectable and shabby; and although he took no part in the conversation, and did not obtrude himself, he did not remove his eyes from Kiss and Mr. Lethbridge. Kiss, turning, beckoned to him, and he joined the friends.
"You heard what we've been talking about," said the actor. "What do you think of it?"
"I wish," said the man, "that I could write such a piece."
"Ah," said Kiss, "it is easy to preach as we've been preaching, but to do the thing is a different pair of shoes. It comes by nature, or it comes not at all."
"But," said the man, "I don't believe it would be a success."
"Wait a moment," said Kiss; "I am forgetting my manners. Mr. Linton—Mr. Lethbridge."
The two shook hands.
"Mr. Linton," said Kiss to Mr. Lethbridge, in explanation, "is a dramatic author, and has written plays."
Mr. Linton sighed, and fidgeted with his fingers.
"Has he?" exclaimed Mr. Lethbridge. "And they have been played, of course?"
Mr. Linton sighed again, and inclined his head.
"I am really delighted," said Mr. Lethbridge. "I have never in my life spoken to a dramatic author, and have never shaken hands with one. Will you allow me?"
They shook hands again, Mr. Lethbridge effusively, Mr. Linton with mingled bashfulness, pride, and awkwardness.
"Successful pieces, I am sure," observed Mr. Lethbridge.
"More or less so," said Kiss. "We must take our rubs, my dear Leth."
"Of course, of course. We've got to take them."
"That's what I'm always telling Linton. We've got to take 'em. Why, you, now," pointing his finger at Mr. Lethbridge, "you're not a public man, and you have your rubs."
"I am not free from them," said Mr. Lethbridge, in a cheerful voice.
"There, now, Linton," said Kiss, with the manner of one who desired to point a moral, "our friend Lethbridge here is not a public man, and he has rubs. So you don't think his piece would be a success? Why, Sempronius?"
"An author must follow the fashion," replied Mr. Linton, "if he wants to live."
"He wants that, naturally." And here Kiss took Mr. Lethbridge aside, with, "Excuse me, Linton, a moment," and whispered, confidentially, "A little dashed. Had a knock-down blow. Last piece a failure. Produced a fort-night ago. Ran a week. I was in it, but could not save it. Consequence, out of an engagement; not serious to me, but to him—very. A man of genius; but not yet hit 'em quite. Will soon, or I'm the worst of actors. Which I am not—nor the best; but 'twill serve. Meanwhile, waiting for the spondulix to pour in, has wife and family to support. A modern Triplet. Has play which will take the town by storm. The play that failed was of a domestic turn. Very pretty; but lacked incident. Too much dialogue, too little action. He feels it—badly. Here," touching his heart, "and here," touching his stomach. They returned to Mr. Linton. "Proceed, Linton."
"The public," said Mr. Linton. "require red fire. Give it them. They want murders. Supply them. They want the penny-dreadful on the stage. Fling it at their heads. Ah! I've not been as wise as some I know."
"In point of ability," whispered Kiss again to Mr. Lethbridge, "he could wipe out the authors he refers to. Excuse him; he is not a bit malicious or envious; but he has been stung, and he's writhing. If you heard me read the play that failed, you would require a dozen pocket-handkerchiefs. He slaved at it for eight months; and dreamt of success with empty platters on his table. I wonder if people know anything of this, or ever give it a thought? But it won't do to encourage him. It does him good to lash out; but we must not agree with him when he's wrong. In his new play there's a part I should like to take. He wrote it with me in his eye. All will come right; till the time arrives, he must grin and bear it. 'Suffering is the badge of all his tribe.' But there are big plums in the pudding, old fellow, and his day to pick 'em will come." Then he said aloud to the moody author: "Don't talk stuff and nonsense. You don't copy, as a rule; you're original, and I make my bow to you; but in what you said you are copying the platitudinarians. What the public want are good plays, such as you can write, and good actors, who are not so scarce as croakers would have us believe. Cheer up, Linton! Where would be the glory of success if we could have it by whistling for it? Why, here we are at your very door, Leth! Now I call that singular."
"Why?" asked Mr. Lethbridge.
"Because we were coming to see you, to ask a favour."
"Anything I can do," said Mr. Lethbridge, knocking at the door, "you may depend upon."
"I told you so, Linton," said Kiss.
The dramatic author brightened up for a moment, but fell again immediately into a state of despondency.
"You're just in time for tea," said Mr. Lethbridge, kissing his wife, who opened the door for them. "Come in, come in. I've brought you some visitors, mother."
"How do you do, Mr. Kiss?" said Mrs. Lethbridge, shaking hands with the always welcome actor.
"Mother," said Mr. Lethbridge, "this is Mr. Linton, the celebrated author."
"I am glad to see you, sir," said Mrs. Lethbridge, inwardly disturbed by the thought that she had not got out her best tea service. "Mr. Kiss, will you take Mr. Linton into the drawing-room? You are at home, you know. Fanny and Bob will be in presently. Phœbe is here, father."
In point of fact, Phœbe, Fanny, and Bob, excited by the sound of the arrival
