When he had written one of his merriest couplets, he would stop his work and sigh with Dorfling over the tragedy of life.

The papers treated his farces as rubbish, but the public adored them.

The earnest critic would hardly touch his name with a pair of tongs, but the theatre managers fought for possession of his work.

He had a beautiful wife who worshiped him, two wonderful children, and the appearance and bearing of Timon of Athens.
At Dorfling's summons two waiters came in; one of them put a large dish of oysters on the table, while the other placed a thick octavo volume before each guest.
"The last of the season," cried Barinskoi gayly, and helped himself to oysters.
"The book! Bravo!" said Paul, and held out his hand to Dorfling.
There was a short silence, while they all, even the cynical Barinskoi, contemplated the book before them, On the pearl-gray cover they read; "The Philosophy of Deliverance, by X.Rheinthaler." "What an expressive title," said Wilhelm, breaking the silence first.
"Admirably adapted for a comic song," remarked Mayboom, with a melancholy air.

Barinskoi laughed loudly, while Dorfling looked blandly at him.