I'll take the liberty to speak it, there is young
Nutbrain has long had (I'll be sworn) a passion for this lady; but
I'll tell you one thing I fear she'll dislike, that is, he is younger
than she is.

"THIRD LADY. No, that's no exception; but I'll tell you one, he is
younger than his brother.

"WIDOW. Talk not of such affairs. Who could love such an unhappy
relict as I am? But, dear madam, what grounds have you for that idle
story?

"FOURTH LADY. Why he toasts you and trembles where you are spoke of.
It must be a match.

"WIDOW. Nay, nay, you rally, you rally; but I know you mean it kindly.

"FIRST LADY. I swear we do.

[TATTLEAID _whispers the_ WIDOW.

"WIDOW. But I must beseech you, ladies, since you have been so
compassionate as to visit and accompany my sorrow, to give me the only
comfort I can now know, to see my friends cheerful, and to honour an
entertainment Tattleaid has prepared within for you. If I can find
strength enough I'll attend you; but I wish you would excuse me, for
I have no relish of food or joy, but will try to get a bit down in my
own chamber.

"FIRST LADY. There is no pleasure without you.

"WIDOW. But, madam, I must beg of your ladyship not to be so importune
to my fresh calamity as to mention Nutbrain any more. I am sure there
is nothing in it. In love with me, quotha!"

[WIDOW _is led away. Exeunt_ LADIES.

Thus runs the comedy, trippingly as the tongue of a gay _raconteur_.
Sometimes the scenes are exaggerated, sometimes the characters may be
overdrawn, but the satire is true, and the wit is of the best.
Take, for instance, the picture reproduced above. Are not its
colours--albeit bold and merciless--tinged with the redeeming hue
of naturalness? And of you, fair daughters of Eve (if any of you
condescend to read these pages), let the author ask one impertinent
little question: Is there not something in the conversation of Dick
Steele's First Lady, or his Second Lady, or all the other Ladies,
which suggests the charity and intellectuality that doth hedge in an
afternoon tea?

CHAPTER X

THE BARTON BOOTHS

"Sweet are the charms of her I love,
More fragrant than the damask rose;
Soft as the down of turtle-dove,
Gentle as winds when zephyr blows;
Refreshing as descending rains,
On sun-burnt climes, and thirsty plains."

Thus rhapsodised the great Barton Booth, who could write harmless
poetry when the cares of acting did not press too hard upon him