drawn gradually down, or a bad man drawn gradually up, he set forth, with a great deal of detail, a great deal of vividness, a modern wobbler, a human pendulum, and simply noted down, as it were, his slow swinging backwards and forwards.  His hero, an evil liver, a modern man of wrath in the first act, dominated by a particular vice, was drawn, by an outside personal influence, from the mire in which he was wallowing, to purity, to real elevation.  But his author, having led him up to the pinnacle, had no intention of leaving him there, blessed by the proclaimed admiration of the gods in the gallery.  In the succeeding acts he introduced a second personal influence, exerted this time on the side of evil, and permitted it to act upon his central figure successfully.  The man fell again into the mire, and was left there at the conclusion of the piece, but hugging a different sin, not the sin he had been embracing when the curtain rose upon the first act.  This dramatic scheme took away the breath of the house for a moment, but only for a moment.  Then the lungs once more did their accustomed duty, and enabled a large number of excited persons to hiss with a wonderful penetration.  Their well-meant efforts did not have the effect of terrorizing the author.  On the contrary, he quickly responded to the hostile uproar, and, coming forward in a very neat Jaeger suit, a flannel shirt, and a pair of admirably fitting doeskin gloves, bowed with great gravity and perfect self-possession.  The hisses thereupon suddenly faded into piercing entreaties for a speech, in which a gallery lady with a powerful soprano voice became notorious as the leader.  But the Jaeger author was not to be prevailed upon.  He waved the doeskin gloves in token of adieu, and retreated once more into the excited obscurity of the wings, where his manager was trembling like an aspen, in the midst of a perspiring company.  The lights were turned down.  The orchestra burst into a tuneful jig, and the lingering audience at length began to disperse.

Dr. Levillier, Julian, and Valentine left their box in silence.  It seemed that this odd play, which dared to be natural, had impressed them.  They walked into the vestibule without a word, and, avoiding many voluble friends who were letting off the steam as they gathered their coats and hats from a weary lady in a white cap, they threaded their way through the crowd and emerged into the street.  Just as they reached the portico, Julian suddenly started and laid his hand on Valentine’s arm.

“What is it?” asked Valentine, looking round.

“Ah! you’re just too late.  He’s gone!”

“He—­who?”

“Marr.”

“Oh,” Valentine said, showing considerable interest; “I wish I had seen him.  Where was he sitting?”

“I haven’t an idea.  Didn’t know he was in the theatre.”