ly was in the front row of the
second circle--a sweet face laughing though the tears were in her eyes;
and she waved to me a handkerchief. And on one side of her stood a
gallant gentleman with merry eyes who shouted "Bravo!" and on the other
a dreamy-looking lad; but he appeared disappointed, having expected
better work from me. And the fourth face I could not see, for it was
turned away from me.

Barbara, determined on completeness, insisted upon supper. In those
days respectability fed at home; but one resort possible there was, an
eating-house with some pretence to gaiety behind St. Clement Danes,
and to that she led us. It was a long, narrow room, divided into wooden
compartments, after the old coffee-house plan, a gangway down the
centre. Now we should call it a dismal hole, and closing the door hasten
away. But to Adam, Eve in her Sunday fig-leaves was a stylishly dressed
woman; and to my eyes, with its gilded mirrors and its flaring gas, the
place seemed a palace.

Barbara ordered oysters, a fish that familiarity with its empty shell
had made me curious concerning. Truly no spot on the globe is so rich in
oyster shells as the East End of London. A stranger might be led to the
impression (erroneous) that the customary lunch of the East End labourer
consists of oysters. How they collect there in such quantities is a
mystery, though Washburn, to whom I once presented the problem, found no
difficulty in solving it to his own satisfaction: "To the rich man the
oyster; to the poor man the shell; thus are the Creator's gifts divided
among all His creatures; none being sent empty away." For drink the
others had stout and I had ginger beer. The waiter, who called me "Sir,"
advised against this mixture; but among us all the dominating sentiment
by this time was that nothing really mattered very much. Afterwards my
father called for a cigar and boldly lighted it, though my mother looked
anxious; and fortunately perhaps it would not draw. And then it came out
that he himself had once written a play.

"You never told me of that," complained my mother.

"It was a long while ago," replied my father; "nothing came of it."

"It might have been a success," said my mother; "you always had a gift
for writing."

"I must look it over again," said my father; "I had quite forgotten it.
I have an impression it wasn't at all bad."

"It can be of much help," said my mother, "a good play. It makes one
think."

We put Barbara into