The other, instead of taking his hand, drew himself up.
‘You have doubtless seen our friend here pretty often before, Mr. Erin?’ he said smiling.
The antiquary turned round and held out his hand mechanically. The other, however, instead of taking it, drew himself up to his full height (which was a good way), put his hands behind him, and bowed stiffly; it was not Dr. Parr but John Kemble.
Mr. Erin, as a playgoer, had of course seen him ‘pretty often before,’ but generally in royal robes or in armour, attired as a king or a warrior; as it happened he had never before seen him in plain clothes. He had a noble figure and a handsome face—though, strange to say, not a very mobile one—and, so far, was in strong contrast to his companion; the difference in expression was even greater. Mr. Kemble had a sternness of demeanour that was almost forbidding, and which reminded Mr. Erin on the instant that he was an intimate friend of Malone’s.
‘I did not expect the honour of a visit from Mr. Kemble,’ said the antiquary drily.
‘I did not come, sir, of my own free will,’ was the uncompromising reply, delivered in deep tragic tones. ‘I am here at the request of my friend Mr. Sheridan.’
‘Quite true,’ observed that gentleman, his eyes dancing with laughter at the antagonistic attitude of his two companions; the tragedian like a stately St. Bernard with stiff tail, who resents the attention of some half-breed of no insignificant stature, and that ventures to entertain a very tolerable opinion of itself.