"Yes, madam," cried he, with the air of one who could have smacked his
lips, "Providence has blessed me with an excellent wife and four charming
children. My wife was Miss Chatterton; you remember her?"
"Yes! Where is she playing now?"
"Why, madam, her health is too weak for it."
"Oh!--You were scene-painter. Do you still paint scenes?"
"With the pen, madam, not the brush. As the wags said, I transferred the
distemper from my canvas to my imagination." And Triplet laughed
uproariously.
When he had done, Mrs. Woffington, who had joined the laugh, inquired
quietly whether his pieces had met with success.
"Eminent--in the closet; the stage is to come!" and he smiled absurdly
again.
The lady smiled back.
"In short," said Triplet, recapitulating, "being blessed with health, and
more tastes in the arts than most, and a cheerful spirit, I should be
wrong, madam, to repine; and this day, in particular, is a happy one,"
added the rose colorist, "since the great Mrs. Woffington has deigned to
remember me, and call me friend."
Such was Triplet's summary.
Mrs. Woffington drew out her memorandum-book, and took down her summary
of the crafty Triplet's facts. So easy is it for us Triplets to draw the
wool over the eyes of women and Woffingtons.
"Triplet, discharged from scene-painting; wife, no engagement; four
children supported by his pen--that is to say, starving; lose no time!"
She closed her book; and smiled, and said:
"I wish these things were comedies instead of trash-edies, as the French
call them; we would cut one in half, and slice away the finest passages,
and then I would act in it; and you would see how the stage-door would
fly open at sight of the author.
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