a feather. But do not go yet. You came to give us money: give us what,
were I rich, I should value more highly,--a little of your time. You,
sir, are an artist; and you, young gentleman?" addressing Lionel.

LIONEL (colouring).--"I--am nothing as yet."

WAIFE.--"You are fond of the drama, I presume, both of you? Apropos of
John Kemble, you, sir, said that you have never heard him. Allow me, so
far as this cracked voice can do it, to give you a faint idea of him."

"I shall be delighted," said Vance, drawing nearer to the table, and
feeling more at his ease. "But since I see you smoke, may I take the
liberty to light my cigar?"

"Make yourself at home," said Gentleman Waife, with the good-humour of a
fatherly host. And, all the while, Lionel and Sophy were babbling
together, she still upon his lap.

Waife began his imitation of John Kemble. Despite the cracked voice, it
was admirable. One imitation drew on another; then succeeded anecdotes
of the Stage, of the Senate, of the Bar. Waife had heard great orators,
whom every one still admires for the speeches which nobody nowadays ever
reads; he gave a lively idea of each. And then came sayings of dry
humour and odd scraps of worldly observation; and time flew on pleasantly
till the clock struck twelve, and the young guests tore themselves away.

"Merle, Merle!" cried the Comedian, when they were gone.

Merle appeared.