day, Smike--not by day.'

The manager's voice recalled him from a more careful inspection of the
building, to the opposite side of the proscenium, where, at a small
mahogany table with rickety legs and of an oblong shape, sat a stout,
portly female, apparently between forty and fifty, in a tarnished silk
cloak, with her bonnet dangling by the strings in her hand, and her hair
(of which she had a great quantity) braided in a large festoon over each
temple.

'Mr Johnson,' said the manager (for Nicholas had given the name
which Newman Noggs had bestowed upon him in his conversation with Mrs
Kenwigs), 'let me introduce Mrs Vincent Crummles.'

'I am glad to see you, sir,' said Mrs Vincent Crummles, in a sepulchral
voice. 'I am very glad to see you, and still more happy to hail you as a
promising member of our corps.'

The lady shook Nicholas by the hand as she addressed him in these terms;
he saw it was a large one, but had not expected quite such an iron grip
as that with which she honoured him.

'And this,' said the lady, crossing to Smike, as tragic actresses cross
when they obey a stage direction, 'and this is the other. You too, are
welcome, sir.'

'He'll do, I think, my dear?' said the manager, taking a pinch of snuff.

'He is admirable,' replied the lady. 'An acquisition indeed.'