Some one says--I think it is Keats, in a letter--that the poet lives not
in one, but in a thousand worlds, and the actor has not one, but a
hundred natures. What was the real Henry Irving? I used to speculate!

His religious upbringing always left its mark on him, though no one
could be more "raffish" and mischievous than he when entertaining
friends at supper in the Beefsteak Room, or chaffing his valued
adjutants, Bram Stoker and Loveday. H.J. Loveday, our dear stage
manager, was, I think, as absolutely devoted to Henry as anyone except
his fox-terrier, Fussie. Loveday's loyalty made him agree with everything
that Henry said, however preposterous, and didn't Henry trade on it
sometimes!

Once while he was talking to me, when he was making up, he absently took
a white lily out of a bowl on the table and began to stripe and dot the
petals with the stick of grease-paint in his hand. He pulled off one or
two of the petals, and held it out to me.

"Pretty flower, isn't it?"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, Henry!" I said.

"You wait!" he said mischievously. "We'll show it to Loveday."

Loveday was sent for on some business connected with the evening's
performance. Henry held out the flower obtrusively, but Loveday wouldn't
notice it.

"Pretty, isn't it?" said Henry carelessly.