of the truth of the teachings of Nisbet and Lombroso concerning men of genius.
Then suddenly Chitterlow's features were convulsed, the histrionic fell from him like a garment, and he was weeping. He said something indistinct about "Old Kipps! Good old Kipps! Oh, old Kipps!" and somehow he managed to mix a chuckle and a sob in the most remarkable way. He emerged from somewhere near the middle of his original attitude, a merely life-size creature. "My play, boohoo!" he sobbed, clutching at his friend's arm. "My play, Kipps! (sob) You know?"
"Well?" cried Kipps, with his heart sinking in sympathy, "it ain't"
"No," howled Chitterlcw; "no. It's a success! My dear chap! my dear boy! oh! It's a—bu—boohoo!—a big success!" He turned away and wiped streaming tears with the back of his hand. He walked a pace or so and turned. He sat down on one of the specially designed artistic chairs of the Associated Booksellers' Trading Union and produced an exiguous lady's handkerchief, extraordinarily belaced. He choked. "My play," and covered his face here and there.
He made an unsuccessful effort to control himself, and shrank for a space to the dimensions of a small and pathetic creature. His great nose suddenly came through a careless place in the handkerchief.
"I'm knocked," he said in a muffled voice, and so remained for a space—wonderful—veiled.
