curiosity of the vivisector; the scalpel is placed under the nerve, and we are called upon to watch the quivering flesh.  Never the kind word, the tears, the effusion, which is man’s highest prerogative, and which separates him from the brute and signifies the immortal end for which he was created.  We hold that it is a pity to see so much talent wasted, and it was indeed a melancholy sight to see so many capable actors and actresses labouring to——­’

‘This is even worse than usual,’ said Hubert; and glancing through half a column of hysterical commonplace, he came upon the following:—­

’But if this woman had succeeded in reclaiming from vice the man who unjustly divorced her, and who in his misery goes back to ask her forgiveness for pity’s sake, what a lesson we should have had!  And, with lightened and not with heavier hearts, we should have left the theatre comforted, better and happier men and women.  But turning his back on the goodness, truth, and love whither he had induced us to believe he was leading us, the author flagrantly makes the woman contradict her whole nature in the last act; and, because her husband falls again, she, instead of raising him with all the tender mercies and humanities of wifehood, declares that her life has been one long mistake, and that she accepts the divorce which the Court had unjustly granted.  The moral, if such a word may be applied to such a piece is this:  “The law may be bad, but human nature is worse."’

The other morning papers took the same view,—­a great deal of talent wasted on a subject that could please no one.  Hubert threw the papers aside, lay back, and in the lucid idleness of the bed his thoughts grew darker.  It was hardly possible that the piece could survive such notices; and if it did not?  Well, he would have to go.  But until the piece was taken out of the bills it would be a weakness to harbour the ugly thought.

There were, however, the evening papers to look forward to, and soon after midday Annie was sent to buy all that had appeared.  Hubert expected to find in these papers a more delicate appreciation of his work.  Many of the critics of the evening press were his personal friends, and nearly all were young men in full sympathy with the new school of dramatic thought.  He read paper after paper with avidity; and Annie was sent in a cab to buy one that had not yet found its way so far north as Fitzroy Street.  The opinion of this paper was of all importance, and Hubert tore it open with trembling fingers.  Although more temperately written than the others, it was clearly favourable, and Hubert sighed a sweet sigh of relief.  A weight was lifted from him; the world suddenly seemed to grow brighter; and he went to the theatre that evening, and, half doubting and half confidently, presented himself at the door of Montague Ford’s dressing-room.  The actor had not yet begun to dress, and was busy writing letters.  He stretched his hand hurriedly to Hubert.