rliament in London.

"Let me order some that's fresh," I replied.

"No, no!" he cried, impatiently, "that will be such an interruption--no,
no!"

I gave him then a cup of cold tea. Presently I broke off a bit of the
stiff and repellant toast, with its chilled, pale gleam of butter, and
nibbled it. His hand went forth and broke off a bit also. We were on a
new poem then, and Mr. Barrett seemed thrilling to his fingertips with
the delight of it. He repeated lines; I questioned his reading; we
experimented, placing emphasis first on this word, then on that. We
generally agreed, but we came an awful cropper over Gladstone.

How fiercely we clashed over the grand old man those who knew Mr. Barrett
will guess from the fact that during the fray he excitedly undid two
buttons of his tight frock-coat. The ends of his white silk muffler now
hung down his back, fluttering when he moved like a small pair of white
wings. I have a recollection, too, of his rising, and, apparently
unconscious of his act, lighting the gas, while he passionately demanded
of me the reason why Dickens could not create a real woman.

At last we came up hard and fast against _Hamlet_. The air was thick with
stories. Part of the time we talked together in our eagerness. Mr.
Barrett's coat was quite unbuttoned; the curl on his wide brow had grown
as frizzly as any common curl might grow. Two round, red spots spread
over his high cheek-bones, his eyes were hungrily glowing; he had just
taken a long breath and made a start on an audience with the Pope, when
Mr. Harriott entered and said: "I beg your pardon, Mr. Barrett, there's a
man outside who is very anxiously inquiring for you."

"For me?" exclaimed Mr. Barrett, with astonishment, "that's rather
impertinent, it seems to me!"

Suddenly he noticed the gas-light. He started violently, he pulled out
his watch, then sprang to his feet, crying: "Good God! Harriott, that's
my dresser looking for me--I ought to be in my dressing-room. What will
Mr. Booth think has become of me, and what, in heaven's name, do you
think of me?"

He hastily buttoned himself into rigidity, rescued the flying ends of his
muffler, and holding my hands for a moment, he laughed: "You are not only
'just Clara,' but you are the only Clara that would make me so utterly
forgetful of all rules of etiquette. Forgive, and good-by!" and he made
an astonishingly hasty exit.

That "call," that lasted from one till seven, with the accompany