to her by chains never to be broken; and to close her eyes, and glide
down the precipice of the future.

"I think you are master of this art," said she, very languidly, to
Triplet, "you paint so rapidly."

"Yes, madam," said Triplet, gloomily; and painted on. "Confound this
shadow!" added he; and painted on.

His soul, too, was clouded. Mrs. Woffington, yawning in his face, had
told him she had invited all Mr. Vane's company to come and praise his
work; and ever since that he had been _morne et silencieux._

"You are fortunate," continued Mrs. Woffington, not caring what she
said; "it is so difficult to make execution keep pace with conception."

"Yes, ma'am;" and he painted on.

"You are satisfied with it?"

"Anything but, ma'am;" and he painted on.

"Cheerful soul!--then I presume it is like?"

"Not a bit, ma'am;" and he painted on.

Mrs. Woffington stretched.

"You can't yawn, ma'am--you can't yawn."

"Oh, yes, I can. You are such good company;" and she stretched again.

"I was just about to catch the turn of the lip," remonstrated Triplet.

"Well, catch it--it won't run away."

"I'll try, ma'am. A pleasant half-hour it will be for me, when they all
come here like cits at a shilling ordinary--each for his cut."

"At a sensitive goose!"

"That is as may be, madam. Those critics flay us alive!"

"You should not hold so many doors open to censure."

"No, ma'am. Head a little more that way. I suppose you _can't_ sit
quiet, ma'am?--then never mind!" (This resignation was intended as a
stinging reproach.) "Mr. Cibber, with his sneering snuff-box! Mr. Quin,
with his humorous bludgeon! Mrs. Clive, with her tongue! Mr. Snarl, with
his abuse! And Mr. Soaper, with his praise!--arsenic in treacle I call
it! But there, I deserve it all! For look on this picture, and on this!"

"Meaning, I am painted as well as my picture!"

"Oh, no, no, no! But to turn from your face, madam--on which the
lightning of expression plays, continually--to this stony, detestable,
dead daub!--I could--And I will, too! Imposture! dead caricature of
life and beauty, take that!" and he dashed his palette-knife through the
canvas. "Libelous lie against nature and Mrs. Woffington, take that!"
and he stabbed the canvas again; then, with sudden humility: "I beg your
pardon, ma'am," said he, "for this apparent outrage, which I trust you
will set down to the excitement attendant upon failure. The fact is, I
am an incapable ass, and no