"Exactly so, Mr. Elsmore, always contrive to be near the door under such
circumstances. That was the way with my poor friend, Curran. Poor
Philpot, when he dined with the Guild of Merchant Tailors, they gave him
a gold box with their arms upon it--a goose proper, with needles saltier
wise, or something of that kind; and they made him free of their 'ancient
and loyal corporation,' and gave him a very grand dinner. Well, Curran
was mighty pleasant and agreeable, and kept them laughing all night, till
the moment he rose to go away, and then he told them that he never spent
so happy an evening, and all that. 'But, gentlemen,' said he, 'business
has its calls, and I must tear myself away; so wishing you now'--there
were just eighteen of them--'wishing you now every happiness and
prosperity, permit me to take my leave'--and here he stole near the door
--'to take my leave, and bid you both good night.'" With a running fire
of such stories, it may be supposed how difficult was my task in getting
any thing done upon the stage.

Well, at last the long-expected Friday arrived, and I rose in the morning
with all that peculiar tourbillon of spirits that a man feels when he is
half pleased and whole frightened with the labour before him. I had
scarcely accomplished dressing when a servant tapped at my door, and
begged to know if I could spare a few moments to speak to Miss Ersler,
who was in the drawing-room. I replied, of course, in the affirmative,
and, rightly conjecturing that my fair friend must be the lovely Fanny
already alluded to, followed the servant down stairs.

"Mr. Lorrequer," said the servant, and closing the door behind me, left
me in sole possession of the lady.

"Will you do me the favour to sit here, Mr. Lorrequer," said one of the