and then I would act in it; and you would see how the stage-door would
fly open at sight of the author."

"O Heaven!" said poor Trip, excited by this picture. "I'll go home, and
write a comedy this moment."

"Stay!" said she; "you had better leave the tragedies with me."

"My dear madam! You will read them?"

"Ahem! I will make poor Rich read them."

"But, madam, he has rejected them."

"That is the first step. Reading them comes after, when it comes at all.
What have you got in that green baize?"

"In this green baize?"

"Well, in this green baize, then."

"Oh madam! nothing--nothing! To tell the truth, it is an adventurous
attempt from memory. I saw you play Silvia, madam; I was so charmed,
that I came every night. I took your face home with me--forgive my
presumption, madam--and I produced this faint adumbration, which I
expose with diffidence."

So then he took the green baize off.

The color rushed into her face; she was evidently gratified. Poor, silly
Mrs. Triplet was doomed to be right about this portrait.

"I will give you a sitting," said she. "You will find painting dull
faces a better trade than writing dull tragedies. Work for other
people's vanity, not your own; that is the art of art. And now I want
Mr. Triplet's address."

"On the fly-leaf of each work, madam," replied that florid author, "and
also at the foot of every page which contains a particularly brilliant
passage, I have been careful to insert the address of James Triplet,
painter, actor, and dramatist, and Mrs. Woffington's humble, devoted
servant." He bowed ridiculously low, and moved toward the door; but
something gushed across his heart, and he returned with long strides to
her. "Madam!" cried he, with a jaunty manner, "you have inspired a son
of Thespis with dreams of eloquence, you have tuned in a higher key a
poet's lyre, you have tinged a painter's existence with brighter colors,
and--and--" His mouth worked still, but no more artificial words would
come. He sobbed out, "and God in heaven bless you, Mrs. Woffington!" and
ran out of the room.

Mrs. Woffington looked after him with interest, for this confirmed her
suspicions; but suddenly her expression changed, she wore a look we have
not yet seen upon her--it was a half-cunning, half-spiteful look; it was
suppressed in a moment, she gave herself to her book, and presently Sir
Charles Pomander sauntered into the room.

"Ah! what, Mrs. Woffington here?" said the diploma