once called upon me.  He explained that he was acting as a sort of ambassador for a friend of his, Mrs. ——­, of Mayfair, who wished me to dine at her house.  I replied that I had not the honour of the lady’s acquaintance, and, though appreciating her kind invitation, I did not see how I could very well avail myself of it.  He said that Prince Somebody or other and La Comtesse de So-and-so would be dining there, and Mrs. ——­ would be so pleased if I would join the party, and sing a little song after dinner.  ‘Oh,’ I said, ’if Mrs. ——­ wishes to engage me professionally, that is another matter, and if I am at liberty, I will come with much pleasure.’  ‘Well,’ said the ambassador, ’I fancy Mrs. ——­ is under the impression that if she includes you in her dinner party it is an understood thing that you sing afterwards.’  ‘I am afraid I do not understand that,’ I said.  ’It would not pay me to do so.  I only consume about ten shillings worth of food and wine, and my terms are more than that.’  There,” said Mr. Grossmith, “could you have believed that anyone would have been so inconceivably mean and caddish?”

[Illustration:  OLD ENGRAVINGS.] [Illustration:  MR. GEORGE GROSSMITH.] [Illustration:  MR. GEO. GROSSMITH, JUN.]

“I have had some curious experiences on tour,” he went on.  “That is hard work, if you like.  I have gone a four months’ tour without missing a night.  It takes it out of one terribly.  But it is very paying work.  In the South of England I have made as much as L300 a week.  My friends tried to frighten me as to the apathy of my Scotch audiences; as a matter of fact, I have no better audiences anywhere.  I like performing to country audiences.  I am never nervous as I am apt to be at St. James’s, where there are a number of my friends.  And it is on my country tours that I have many curious experiences.  Amateurs invariably call at the hotel to see me, and to ask my advice as to their powers of recitation.  Some are quite hopeless, and I haven’t the heart to condemn them utterly, or to go beyond ’I tell you quite candidly, since you ask me, that I have heard better.’  As a rule they are very quiet and modest, but now and again one encounters some fearful specimens.  I remember once at a country town, which we will call Mudborough, a flashy young cad, in a very loud suit, called to see me with a parcel under his arm.  He had come, he told me, to learn my opinion of his singing.  He further informed me that he was known as ‘the Mudborough Grossmith.’  He didn’t have the courtesy to take off his hat; he walked up and down my room, whistling, singing, and handing me over now and again specimens of his powers as a water-colour painter.  I looked at them.  At last, tired of the idiot and his airs, I said, ’I hope your musical sketches are better than you water-colour sketches.’  Nothing, however, could snub this fellow.  He proceeded straightway to sing me an improved version of ’See me Dance the Polka.’  ‘Do your audience like it?’ I asked.  ’I