Woffington," said Mr. Triplet to his wife. Mrs. Woffington planted
herself in the middle of the floor, and with a comical glance, setting
her arms akimbo, uttered a shrill whistle.
"Now you will see another angel--there are two sorts of them."
Pompey came in with a basket; she took it from him.
"Lucifer, avaunt!" cried she, in a terrible tone, that drove him to the
wall; "and wait outside the door," added she, conversationally.
"I heard you were ill, ma'am, and I have brought you some physic -- black
draughts from Burgundy;" and she smiled. And, recovered from their first
surprise, young and old began to thaw beneath that witching, irresistible
smile. "Mrs. Triplet, I have come to give your husband a sitting; will
you allow me to eat my little luncheon with you? I am so hungry." Then
she clapped her hands, and in ran Pompey. She sent him for a pie she
professed to have fallen in love with at the corner of the street.
"Mother," said Alcibiades, "will the lady give me a bit of her pie?"
"Hush! you rude boy!" cried the mother.
"She is not much of a lady if she does not," cried Mrs. Woffington. "Now,
children, first let us look at--ahem--a comedy. Nineteen _dramatis
personae!_ What do you say, children, shall we cut out seven, or nine?
that is the question. You can't bring your armies into our drawing-rooms,
Mr. Dagger-and-bowl.
Pages:
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125