r,
whom I think he had been to see in _Les Vieux Garcons_. He said he
found him very old. "Alas! He is _Vieux Garcon_ himself." I think of
our few little dinners in my house; would we had had more! Somehow
since I have been living here the image of him has been more and more
stamped on me; I see and like him more. The poor, toiling, loveable
fellow, to think that all is over with him now!"

[At the risk of smiles, and perhaps some suspicion of vanity, I go on
to copy what follows.] When I saw Mrs. Forster during those dismal
days, she was good enough to relate to me much about his personal
liking for me. He would tell them how I could do anything if I only
gave myself fair play. He said he was going to write to give me a
sound blowing up. "And yet," he added, "I doubt if he would take it
from anybody else but me. He is a good fellow." [I still doubt whether
I should add what follows, but I am not inclined to sacrifice such a
tribute from such a man; told me, too, only a few days after his
death.] He praised a novel of mine, _No. 75, Brooke St._, and here are
his words: "The last scene and winding up is one of the most powerful
things I have met."

Forster, devoted to the school of Macready, and all but trained by
that actor, whose bust was placed in his hall, thought but poorly of
the performances of our time. He pooh-poohed them all, including even
the great and more brilliant successes. Once a clever American company
came over, a phenomenal thing at that time, and appeared at the St.
James's Theatre. They played _She Stoops to Conquer_, with two
excellent performers as Old Hardcastle and Marlow; Brough was the
Tony. I induced Forster to come and see them, and we made up a party.
He listened with an amusing air of patronage, which was habitual with
him--meant to encourage--and said often that "it was very good, very
fair indeed." Brough he admitted was perhaps the nearest to the
fitting tone and spirit of the piece. The two American actors, as it
seemed to me, were excellent comedians.

I once saw him at St. James's Hall, drawn to hear one of his friend's
last readings. I saw his entrance. He came piloted by the faithful
Charles Kent, who led, or rather _cleared_ the way, Forster following
with a smiling modesty, as if he sought to avoid too much notice. His
rotund figure was swathed in a tight fitting paletot, while a sort of
nautical wrapper was round his throat. He fancied no doubt that many
an eye was following