"How—how in the world did you know?" said the young man, more impressed than ever.
He unearthed his tragedy, the title of which I have given, and began to read. I felt as though I were walking in a dream; having been till then ignorant of the fact that earth held young men who held five-act tragedies in their insides. The young man gave me the whole of the performance, from the preliminary scene, where nothing more than an eruption of Vesuvius occurs to mar the serenity of the manager, till the very end, where the Roman sentry of Pompeii is slowly banked up with ashes in the presence of the audience, and dies murmuring through his helmet-vizor: "S.P.Q.R.R.I.P.R.S.V.P.," or words to that effect.
For three hours and one-half he read to me. And then I made a mistake.
"Sir," said I, "who's your Ma and Pa?"
"I haven't got any," said he, and his lower lip quivered.
"Where do you live?" I said.
"At the back of Tarporley Mews," said he.
"How?" said I.
"On eleven shillings a week," said he.