He then seized some sheets of paper fished out some old dramatic
sketches, and a list of _dramatis personae,_ prepared years ago, and
plunged into a comedy. As he wrote, true to his promise, he painted,
Triplet-wise, that story which we have coldly related, and made it
appear, to all but Mrs. Triplet, that he was under the tutela, or express
protection of Mrs. Woffington, who would push his fortunes until the only
difficulty would be to keep arrogance out of the family heart.
Mrs. Triplet groaned aloud. "You have brought the picture home, I see,"
said she.
"Of course I have. She is going to give me a sitting."
"At what hour, of what day?" said Mrs. Triplet, with a world of meaning.
"She did not say," replied Triplet, avoiding his wife's eye.
"I know she did not," was the answer. "I would rather you had brought me
the ten shillings than this fine story," said she.
"Wife!" said Triplet, "don't put me into a frame of mind in which
successful comedies are not written." He scribbled away; but his wife's
despondency told upon the man of disappointments. Then he stuck fast;
then he became fidgety.
"Do keep those children quiet!" said the father.
"Hush, my dears," said the mother; "let your father write. Comedy seems
to give you more trouble than tragedy, James," added she, soothingly.
"Yes," was his answer. "Sorrow comes somehow more natural to me; but for
all that I have got a bright thought, Mrs.
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