His lifelong friend, Bram Stoker, told me that the first evening after the knighthood had been conferred on Irving, they were dining tête-à-tête, and Bram, imagining that it behoved him to address his chief in terms of more formality than had hitherto prevailed, said, when it came to the wine, “What shall we drink to-night, Sir Henry?” Down went Irving’s knife and fork as he fell back wearily in his chair and ejaculated, “By God, you too Bram?”