"But who is Margaret Woffington," she cried, "that she should pretend to
honest love, or feel insulted by the proffer of a stolen regard? And what
have we to do with homes, or hearts, or firesides? Have we not the
playhouse, its paste diamonds, its paste feelings, and the loud applause
of fops and sots--hearts?--beneath loads of tinsel and paint? Nonsense!
The love that can go with souls to heaven--such love for us? Nonsense!
These men applaud us, cajole us, swear to us, flatter us; and yet,
forsooth, we would have them respect us too."
"My dear benefactress," said Triplet, "they are not worthy of you."
"I thought this man was not all dross; from the first I never felt his
passion an insult. Oh, Triplet! I could have loved this man--really loved
him! and I longed so to be good. Oh, God! oh, God!"
"Thank Heaven, you don't love him!" cried Triplet, hastily. "Thank Heaven
for that!"
"Love him? Love a man who comes to me with a silly second-hand affection
from his insipid baby-face, and offers me half, or two-thirds, or a third
of his worthless heart? I hate him! and her! and all the world!"
"That is what I call a very proper feeling," said poor Triplet, with a
weak attempt to soothe her. "Then break with him at once, and all will be
well."
"Break with him? Are you mad? No! Since he plays with the tools of my
trade I shall fool him worse than he has me.
Pages:
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191