"Can't stand you in tights and Hessians, Bingley," young Mr.Foker had previously remarked.

He had the stage jewellery on too, selecting "the largest and most shining rings for himself," and allowing his little finger to quiver out of his cloak, with a sham diamond ring covering the first joint of the finger, and twiddling it in the faces of the pit.

It is told of him that he made it a favour to the young men of his company to go on in light-comedy parts with that ring.

They flattered him by asking its history.

"It had belonged to George Frederick Cooke, who had had it from Mr.Quin, who may have bought it for a shilling." But Bingley fancied the world was fascinated by its glitter.
And he read out of that stage-book--the genuine and old-established "book of the play"-- that wonderful volume, "which is not bound like any other book in the world, but is rouged and tawdry like the hero or heroine who holds it; and who holds it as people never do hold books: and points with his finger to a passage, and wags his head ominously at the audience, and then lifts up eyes and finger to the ceiling, professing to derive some intense consolation from the work between which and heaven there is a strong affinity.