competition with one another.

I dare say an outsider, as the non-professional has been termed time out
of mind, watching our conduct for a few days and nights, would conclude
that, though quite harmless, we are all a little _mad_. For the actor's
funny habit of injecting old, old lines of old, old plays into his
everyday conversation must be somewhat bewildering to the uninitiated:--

If an elderly, heavy breathing, portly gentleman, lifting his hat to a
gentle, dignified little lady, remarks, "Beshrew me, but I do love thee
still. Isn't it hot this morning; take this chair." Or if a very slender
pop-eyed young comedian, while wiping his brow, says, "Now could I drink
hot blood and hold it not a sin," and some one else calmly answers, "You
haven't got those words right, and you couldn't drink anything hot
to-day without having a fit." Or if two big, stalwart men, meeting in
the "entrance," fall suddenly into each other's arms, with a cry of
"Camille!" "Armand!" Or if a man enters the greenroom with his hat on,
and a half-dozen people call, "Do you take this for an ale-house, that
you can enter with such a swagger?" and the hat comes off with a
laughing apology. Or if the man with the cane is everlastingly
practising "carte and tierce" on somebody, or doing a broadsword fight
with any one who has an umbrella. If a woman passes with her eyes cast
down, reading a letter, and some one says, "In maiden meditation, fancy
free." If she eats a sandwich at a long rehearsal, and some one
instantly begins, "A creature not too bright nor good for human nature's
daily food." If she appears in a conspicuously new gown and some one
cries, "The riches of the ship have come on shore," ten to one she
replies, "A poor thing, but mine own."

These things will look and sound queer and flighty to the outsider, who,
not acquainted with the lines or the plays they are from, cannot of
course see how aptly some of them adapt themselves to the situation. But
this one is plain to all. A young girl, who was a very careless dresser,
was trailing along the "entrance" one evening, when behind her the
leading man, quoting Juliet, remarked, "'Thou knowest the mask of night
is on my cheek,' or I would not dare tell you your petticoat is coming
off;" a perfect gale of laughter followed, in which the little sloven
joined heartily.

Then one morning, rehearsal being dismissed, I was hurrying away,
intending to enjoy a ride on horse-back, when Mr. David