We were soon exchanging memories of the past, and Mr. Harriott, having a business engagement ahead, excused himself and withdrew. Mr. Barrett, calling after him: "I'll join you in a moment," resumed his conversation. There still stood on the table a pot of tea and a plate holding two pieces of toast. They had been meant for my lunch, but neuralgia had the call, and lunch had been ignored; so, as we talked on and on, presently Mr. Barrett, seeing my bandage sliding down over my eyes, rose, and, without pausing in his rapid description of a certain picture he had seen abroad in its creator's studio, he passed behind me, tightened the knot of the handkerchief, put the sofa-pillow behind my head, a stool under my feet, and resumed his seat.
Then I talked and talked, and grew excited, then thirsty. I drew the tray nearer and poured out a cup of tea.
"Give me some," said Mr. Barrett, who was now telling me about a sitting of Parliament in London.
"Let me order some that's fresh," I replied.
"No, no!" he cried, impatiently, "that will be such an interruption—no, no!"
I gave him then a cup of cold tea. Presently I broke off a bit of the stiff and repellant toast, with its chilled, pale gleam of butter, and nibbled it. His hand went forth and broke off a bit also. We were on a new poem then, and Mr. Barrett seemed thrilling to his fingertips with the delight of it. He repeated lines; I questioned his reading; we experimented, placing emphasis first on this word, then on that. We generally agreed, but we came an awful cropper over Gladstone.
How fiercely we clashed over the grand old man those who knew Mr. Barrett will guess from the fact that during the fray he excitedly undid two buttons of his tight frock-coat. The ends of his white silk muffler now hung down his back, fluttering when he moved like a small pair of white wings. I have a recollection, too, of his rising, and, apparently unconscious of his act, lighting the gas, while he passionately demanded of me the reason why Dickens could not create a real woman.
At last we came up hard and fast against Hamlet. The air was thick with stories. Part of the time we talked together in our eagerness. Mr. Barrett's coat was quite unbuttoned; the curl on his wide brow had grown as frizzly as any common curl might grow. Two round, red spots spread over his high cheek-bones, his eyes were hungrily glowing; he had just taken a long breath and made a start on an audience with the Pope, when Mr. Harriott entered and said: "I beg your pardon, Mr. Barrett, there's a man outside who is very anxiously inquiring for you."
"For me?" exclaimed Mr. Barrett, with astonishment, "that's rather impertinent, it seems to me!"
Suddenly he noticed the gas-light. He started violently, he pulled out his watch, then sprang to his feet, crying: "Good God! Harriott, that's my dresser looking for me—I ought to be in my dressing-room. What will Mr. Booth think has become of me, and what, in heaven's name, do you think of me?"