The amazed manager, after some objection, having consented, I once more put on the rusty black gown, took my small bundle, and asked of the gay ladies from Paris my way to the convent, yonder--finding in the tears of the audience and the excellence of the general performance, full reward for playing second fiddle that evening.
In my early married days, when the great coffee-urn was still a menace to my composure and dignity, at a little home-dinner, when Mr. William Black, the famous writer of Scottish novels, honored me by his presence on my right, Mr. Barrett on my left, moved, no one knows by what freak of memory, lifted his glass, and, speaking low, said: "'Just Clara,' your health!"
I laughed a little, and was nodding back, when Mr. Black, who saw everything through those glasses of his, cried out: "Favoritism, favoritism! why, bless my heart, I drank your health ten minutes ago, and you never blushed a blush for me! And I am chief guest, and on the right hand of the hostess--explanations are now in order!"
And Mr. Barrett said that he would explain on their way to the club, whereupon Mr. Black wrinkled up his nose delightedly, and said he "scented a story"--"and, oh," he cried, "it's the sweetest scent in the world, the most fascinating trail to follow!"
But I was thankful that he did not hunt down his quarry then and there, for he could be as mischievous as a squirrel and as persistent as any _enfant terrible_, if he thought you were depriving him of a story.
Though tears creep into my eyes at the same moment, yet must I laugh whenever I think of Mr. Barrett's last "call" upon me. We were unknowingly stopping in the same hotel. On the way to the dining-room for a bit of lunch, Mr. Harriott and Mr. Barrett met, exchanged greetings, and when the latter found I was not going to luncheon, and was moreover suffering from a most severe attack of neuralgia, he asked if he could not call upon me for a few moments.
Mr. Harriott looked doubtful, and while he hesitated, Mr. Barrett hastily added: "Of course I shall merely say 'How do you do,' and express my sympathy, since I know something about neuralgia myself--that's all."
Upon which they turned back, and Mr. Harriott ushered the unexpected, the spick-and-span caller into my presence, with the reassuring word: "Mr. Barrett is sparing a moment or two of his time, Clara, to express his sympathy for you."