[Illustration: "GOOD NIGHT. TYRRELL!"]

But, notwithstanding this smile, the Adorned C. is short of temper.
Indeed, you may only make him bark by practising upon this fact.
Tyrrell's private performance with the Adorned C. is one that
irresistibly reminds the spectator of Lieutenant Cole's with his
figures, and would scarcely be improved by ventriloquism itself. The
Adorned C. prefers biting to barking, and his bite is worse than his
bark--bites always are, except in the proverb. This is why Tyrrell holds
the Adorned C. pretty tight whenever he touches him. The one aspiration
of the Adorned C. is for a quiet life, and he defends his aspiration
with bites and barks. Tyrrell touches him gently, cautiously, and
repeatedly on the back until the annoyance is no longer to be tolerated,
and then the Adorned C. duly barks like a terrier. Now, the most
interesting thing about the Adorned C., after his mouth, is his bark,
and why he should be reluctant to exhibit it except under pressure of
irritation--why he should hide his light under a bushel of ill-temper--I
can't conceive. It is as though Patti wouldn't sing till her manager
threw an egg at her, or as though Sir Frederick Leighton would only
paint a picture after Mr. Whistler had broken his studio windows with a
brick. Even the whistling oyster of London tradition would perform
without requiring a preliminary insult or personal assault. But let us
account everything good if possible; perhaps the Adorned C. only suffers
from a modest dislike for vain display; although this is scarcely
consistent with the internal exhibition afforded by his smile.

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