I think we first heard of the affair on our second voyage to America, during which I was still so ill that they thought I might never see Quebec, and Henry wrote a letter to the press—­a “scorcher.”  He showed it to me on the boat.  When I had read it, I tore it up and threw the bits into the sea.

“It hasn’t injured me in any way,” I said.  “Any answer would be undignified.”

Henry did what I wished in the matter, but, unlike me, whose heart I am afraid is of wax—­no impression lasts long—­he never forgot it, and never forgave.  If the speech-maker chanced to come into a room where he was—­he walked out.  He showed the same spirit in the last days of his life, long after our partnership had come to an end.  A literary club, not a hundred yards from Hyde Park Corner, “blackballed"’ me (although I was qualified for election under the rules) for reasons with which I was never favored.  The committee, a few months later, wished Henry Irving to be the guest of honor at one of the club dinners.  The honor was declined.

The first night of “Olivia” at the Lyceum was about the only comfortable first night that I have ever had!  I was familiar with the part, and two of the cast, Terriss and Norman Forbes, were the same as at the Court, which made me feel all the more at home.  Henry left a great deal of the stage-management to us, for he knew that he could not improve on Mr. Hare’s production.  Only he insisted on altering the last act, and made a bad matter worse.  The division into two scenes wasted time, and nothing was gained by it. Never obstinate, Henry saw his mistake and restored the original end after a time.  It was weak and unsatisfactory but not pretentious and bad like the last act he presented at the first performance.

We took the play too slowly at the Lyceum.  That was often a fault there.  Because Henry was slow, the others took their time from him, and the result was bad.

The lovely scene of the vicarage parlor, in which we used a harpsichord and were accused of pedantry for our pains, did not look so well at the Lyceum as at the Court.  The stage was too big for it.

The critics said that I played Olivia better at the Lyceum, but I did not feel this myself.

At first Henry did not rehearse the Vicar at all well.  One day when he was stamping his foot very much, as if he was Matthias in “The Bells,” my little Edy, who was a terrible child and a wonderful critic, said: 

“Don’t go on like that, Henry.  Why don’t you talk as you do to me and Teddy?  At home you are the Vicar.”

The child’s frankness did not offend Henry, because it was illuminating.  A blind man had changed his Shylock; a little child changed his Vicar.  When the first night came he gave a simple, lovable performance.  Many people now understood and liked him as they had never done before.  One of the things I most admired in it was his sense of the period.