The elderly gentleman, not seeing the humour of the joke, one of our party to soothe him explained to him that it was Atherton, the Atherton—Charlie Atherton.
“Oh, is it,” growled the elderly gentleman. “Then will you tell him from me that when I want his damned tomfoolery I'll come to the theatre and pay for it.”
“What a disagreeable man,” we said, as, following our low comedian, we made our way into the hotel.
During lunch he continued in excellent spirits; kissed the bald back of the waiter's head, pretending to mistake it for a face, called for hot mustard and water, made believe to steal the silver, and when the finger-bowls arrived, took off his coat and requested the ladies to look the other way.
After lunch he became suddenly serious, and slipping his arm through mine, led me by unfrequented paths.
“Now, about this new opera,” he said; “we don't want any of the old stale business. Give us something new.”
I suggested that to do so might be difficult.
“Not at all,” he answered. “Now, my idea is this. I am a young fellow, and I'm in love with a girl.”
I promised to make a note of it.
“Her father, apoplectic old idiot—make him comic: 'Damme, sir! By gad!' all that sort of thing.”