” “You are really going on the stage, then?” he said slowly. She rose from her chair, and began walking up and down the room restlessly. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. By many a highwayman many a draught Of nutty-brown ale at Saint Giles's was quaft, Until the old lazar-house chanced to fall down, And the broad-bottom'd bowl was removed to the Crown. People had started filling the hall: instrumentalists, overly conscientious parents. —Though if my name should become as famous as theirs, it wouldn't much matter. “Oh. We middle-aged fools and we old fools can no longer dream. “Never mind, old chap,” he declared.
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