I never saw a house better stocked with critics.' 'Here he is,' cried Madame de Chateauvieux, betraying her suppressed excitement in her nervous little start.

'Oh, Mr.Wallace, how do you do?
and how are things going ?' Poor Wallace threw himself into his seat, looking the picture of misery so far as his face, which Nature had moulded in one of her cheerfullest moods, was capable of it.
'My dear Madame de Chateauvieux, I have no more notion than the man in the moon.

Miss Bretherton is an angel, and without Forbes we should have collapsed a hundred times already, and that's about all I know.

As for the other actors, I suppose they will get through their parts somehow, but at present I feel like a man at the foot of the gallows.

There goes the hell; now for it.' The sketch for the play of _Elvira_ had been found among the papers of a young penniless Italian who had died, almost of starvation, in his Roman garret, during those teeming years after 1830, when poets grew on every hedge and the romantic passion was abroad.