Bless you, you don't think we pay our Sarah Bernhardts, and our Cinquevallis, and our Paderewskis and our Peggy Prydes those enormous salaries that get into the papers.

No; no, we couldn't do it, but we are content to let it be thought we do.

It impresses our public, Bonypart--it impresses our public, my boy." Madame Marve produced bread, butter, pannikins, and the familiar necessities, brought forward the usual boiled leg of mutton on a lordly dish, large, fat and steaming like a laundry.
"Encore, encore!" cried the Professor.
"Hear, hear!" applauded Nickie, clapping vigorously.

Matty Cann even ventured an expression of appreciation.
Madame Marve placed the mutton for the carver, and bowed low to the right and left, picked up an imaginary bouquet, and threw three kisses to hypothetical "gods." "Come, come, Bony," she said, patting the Living Skeleton on the back, "buck up, man.

If my old man couldn't think of me for ten minutes without snivelling, I'd have a divorce." Matty Cann smiled wanly.