painter! Others have often hinted as much;
but I never observed it myself till now!"

"Right through my pet dimple!" said Mrs. Woffington, with perfect
_nonchalance._ "Well, now I suppose I may yawn, or do what I like?"

"You may, madam," said Triplet, gravely. "I have forfeited what little
control I had over you, madam."

So they sat opposite each other, in mournful silence. At length the
actress suddenly rose. She struggled fiercely against her depression,
and vowed that melancholy should not benumb her spirits and her power.

"He ought to have been here by this time," said she to herself. "Well, I
will not mope for him. I must do something. Triplet," said she.

"Madam."

"Nothing."

"No, madam."

She sat gently down again, and leaned her head on her hand, and thought.
She was beautiful as she thought!--her body seemed bristling with
mind! At last, her thoughtful gravity was illumined by a smile. She had
thought out something _excogitaverat._

"Triplet, the picture is quite ruined!"

"Yes, madam. And a coach-load of criticism coming!"

"Triplet, we actors and actresses have often bright ideas."

"Yes, ma am."

"When we take other people's!"

"He, he!" went Triplet. "Those are our best, madam!"

"Well, sir, I have got a bright idea."

"You don't say so, ma'am!"

"Don't be a brute, dear!" said the lady gravely.

Triplet stared!

"When I was in France, taking lessons of Dumesnil, one of the actors of
the Theatre Francais had his portrait painted by a rising artist. The
others were to come and see it. They determined, beforehand, to mortify
the painter and the sitter, by abusing the work in good set terms. But
somehow this got wind, and the patients resolved to be the physicians.
They put their heads together, and contrived that the living face should
be in the canvas, surrounded by the accessories; these, of course, were
painted. Enter the actors, who played their little prearranged farce;
and, when they had each given the picture a slap, the picture rose and
laughed in their faces, and discomfited them! By the by, the painter
did not stop there; he was not content with a short laugh, he laughed at
them five hundred years!"

"Good gracious, Mrs. Woffington!"

"He painted a picture of the whole thing; and as his work is immortal,
ours an April snow-flake, he has got tremendously the better of those
rash little satirists. Well, Trip, what is sauce for the gander is sauce
for the goose; so give m