there's more in it. Well, Mr.
Triplet, you see what time has done for me; now tell me whether he has
been as kind to you. Are you going to speak to me, Mr. Triplet?"

As a decayed hunter stands lean and disconsolate, head poked forward
like a goose's, but if hounds sweep by his paddock in full cry, followed
by horses who are what he was not, he does, by reason of the good blood
that is and will be in his heart, _dum spiritus hoss regit artus,_ cock
his ears, erect his tail, and trot fiery to his extremest hedge, and
look over it, nostril distended, mane flowing, and neigh the hunt
onward like a trumpet; so Triplet, who had manhood at bottom, instead of
whining out his troubles in the ear of encouraging beauty, as a sneaking
spirit would, perked up, and resolved to put the best face upon it all
before so charming a creature of the other sex.

"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,