Sir Charles then resumed his complacency, and
cantered into London that same evening.
Arrived there, he set himself in earnest to cut out his friend with Mrs.
Woffington. He had already caused his correspondence with that lady to
grow warm and more tender, by degrees. Keeping a copy of his last, he
always knew where he was. Cupid's barometer rose by rule; and so he
arrived by just gradations at an artful climax, and made her in terms of
chivalrous affection, an offer of a house, etc., three hundred a year,
etc., not forgetting his heart, etc. He knew that the ladies of the stage
have an ear for flattery and an eye to the main chance.
The good Sir Charles felt sure that, however she might flirt with Vane or
others, she would not forego a position for any disinterested _penchant._
Still, as he was a close player, he determined to throw a little cold
water on that flame. His plan, like everything truly scientific, was
simple.
"I'll run her down to him, and ridicule him to her," resolved this
faithful friend and lover dear.
He began with Vane. He found him just leaving his own house. After the
usual compliments, some such dialogue as this took place between
Telemachus and pseudo Mentor:
"I trust you are not really in the power of this actress?"
"You are the slave of a word," replied Vane. "Would you confound black
and white because both are colors? She is like that sisterhood in nothing
but a name.
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