presented to himself were modest little nosegays when compared with the
gorgeous floral set pieces provided _ad libitum_ for "Signor Salvini" by
Signor Salvini.

Then presently I began to smile at the open honesty of this
self-appreciation, at the naïve admiration he expresses for his figure,
his voice, his power. "After all," I said, "when the whole civilized
world has for years and years affirmed and reaffirmed that he is the
greatest actor living, is it strange that he should come to believe the
world?"

"But," growled my friend, "why could he not be content with the world's
statement? Why had he no reticence? Look at these declarations: that no
words can describe his power, that everybody wished to know him, that
everybody wished to claim his friendship, that everybody made it his
boast to be seen in his company, etc."

"Well," I answered, "you certainly cannot doubt the truth of the
assertions. I believe every one of them. You see, you are not making any
allowance for temperament or early environment. Those who are humbly
born in a kingdom are lifted by a monarch's praise to the very pinnacle
of pride and joy and superiority. Think of the compliments paid this man
by royalty. Think, too, of his hot blood, his quick imagination. You
can't expect calm self-restraint from him; and just let me tell you,
for your comfort, that this 'book Salvini' is utterly unlike the kindly
gentleman who is the real, everyday Salvini."

My friend looked at me a moment, then shaking hands he added gravely:
"Thank you. The great actor goes upon his pedestal again, to my own
satisfaction; but--but--don't think I care for this book. I'll wait till