guying."

But don't imagine there's any _socialism_ about a theatre that means
community of property and association; on the contrary, we enter into
the keenest competition with one another.

I dare say an outsider, as the non-professional has been termed time out
of mind, watching our conduct for a few days and nights, would conclude
that, though quite harmless, we are all a little _mad_. For the actor's
funny habit of injecting old, old lines of old, old plays into his
everyday conversation must be somewhat bewildering to the uninitiated:--

If an elderly, heavy breathing, portly gentleman, lifting his hat to a
gentle, dignified little lady, remarks, "Beshrew me, but I do love thee
still. Isn't it hot this morning; take this chair." Or if a very slender
pop-eyed young comedian, while wiping his brow, says, "Now could I drink
hot blood and hold it not a sin," and some one else calmly answers, "You
haven't got those words right, and you couldn't drink anything hot
to-day without having a fit." Or if two big, stalwart men, meeting in
the "entrance," fall suddenly into each other's arms, with a cry of
"Camille!" "Armand!" Or if a man enters the greenroom with his hat on,
and a half-dozen people call, "Do you take this for an ale-house, that
you can enter with such a swagger?" and the hat comes off with a
laughing apology. Or if the man with the cane is everlastingly
practising "carte and tierce" on somebody, or doing a broadsword fight
with any one who has an umbrella. If a woman passes with her eyes cast
down, reading a letter, and some one says, "In maiden meditation, fancy
free." If she eats a sandwich at a long rehearsal, and some one
instantly begins, "A creature not too bright nor good for human nature's
daily food." If she appears in a conspicuously new gown and some one