[Begins an anecdote.
Medford (in a corner with Myself; he gives me his private opinion). The piece would never have gone down without the music.
Myself (rather pooh-poohing it all). No . . . of course not.
Having neither acted nor appeared in any way, except as representative host to do the honours, which, I find, did themselves easily, I am a little bitter. Nobody knew exactly who I was, nor seemed to take any interest in me at all, except old Mrs. Frampton, who thought I was a waiter, and asked me to order her carriage punctually.
Medford. Milburd is so obstinate. You know at first he wouldn't introduce those tunes.
Myself. (Who want to go and talk to Ada Cherton.) Wouldn't he?
Medford. No. (With the air of a genuine critic.) Milburd couldn't touch Cox. Not his line at all. Between ourselves, Chilvern was best as the Waiter.
Myself (decidedly). Oh, a long way. (This is because he was an unimportant character comparatively. With very little to do, that little he did as if it wasn't in a play at all, but merely a bit of fun with the audience.)
Cazell (who is enthusiastic about theatricals after his performance of Don Boxos,—comes up to Medford). I say! I tell you what we ought to do. We ought to get up a good big piece for all of us. (He sees himself in some particular character.)
Medford. Yes (reflectively), we might easily do—let me see—there's the Game of Speculation.