“ Vite à l’ouvrage! 72 Here is the book; here is your role: read.” And I read. He did not commend; at some passages he scowled and stamped. He gave me a lesson: I diligently imitated. It was a disagreeable part⁠—a man’s⁠—an empty-headed fop’s. One could put into it neither heart nor soul: I hated it. The play⁠—a mere trifle⁠—ran chiefly on the efforts of a brace of rivals to gain the hand of a fair coquette. One lover was called the “Ours,” a good and gallant but unpolished man, a sort of diamond in the rough; the other was a butterfly, a talker, and a traitor: and I was to be the butterfly, talker, and traitor.