Even on the stage they have nothing in common. They are
puppets--all attitude and trick; she is all ease, grace and nature."
"Nature!" cried Pomander. _"Laissez-moi tranquille._ They have
artifice--nature's libel. She has art--nature's counterfeit."
"Her voice is truth told by music," cried the poetical lover; "theirs are
jingling instruments of falsehood."
"They are all instruments," said the satirist; "she is rather the best
tuned and played."
"Her face speaks in every lineament; theirs are rouged and wrinkled
masks."
"Her mask is the best made, mounted, and moved; that is all."
"She is a fountain of true feeling."
"No; a pipe that conveys it without spilling or holding a drop."
"She is an angel of talent, sir."
"She's a devil of deception."
"She is a divinity to worship."
"She's a woman to fight shy of. There is not a woman in London better
known," continued Sir Charles. "She is a fair actress on the boards, and
a great actress off them; but I can tell you how to add a new charm to
her."
"Heaven can only do that," said Vane, hastily.
"Yes, you can. Make her blush. Ask her for the list of your
predecessors."
Vane winced visibly. He quickened his step, as if to get rid of this
gadfly.
"I spoke to Mr. Quin," said he, at last; "and he, who has no prejudice,
paid her character the highest compliment.
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