WOFF. See (_shows him letter_). "Madam, you are an angel;" from a gentleman, a perfect stranger to me, so it must be correct (_enter Pompey with a basket_). Ah! here is another angel! there are two sorts you know, angels of light and angels of darkness (_takes basket from Pompey_). Lucifer, avaunt! (_in a terrible tone_) and wait outside the door (_in a familiar tone. Exit Pompey_). (_Aside._ They are in sore distress, poor things!) I am sorry you are ill, Mrs. Triplet! I have brought you some physic--black draught from Burgundy (_Mrs. Triplet attempts to rise but sinks back again_). Don't move, I insist! TRIP. Oh, Mrs. Woffington, had I dreamed you would deign to come here,-- WOFF. You would have taken care to be out. (_Aside._ Their faces look pinched, I know what that means.) Mrs. Triplet, I have come to give your husband a sitting for my portrait, will you allow me to eat my little luncheon in your room? I am so hungry. Pompey! (_Pompey runs in_) run to the corner and buy me that pie I took such a fancy to as we came along (_gives money to Pompey. Exit Pompey 2 E. L._). BOY. Mother, will the lady give me a bit of her pie? MRS. T. Hush, you rude boy! WOFF. She is not much of a lady if she doesn't! Now children, we'll first look at father's comedy. Nineteen dramatis personæ,--cut out seven. Don't bring your armies into _our_ drawing-rooms, Mr. Dagger and Bowl: can you marshal battalions on a Turkey carpet, and make gentlefolks witty in platoons? What's here in the first act? A duel! and both wounded--you butcher! TRIP. (_deprecatingly_). They are not to die, they shan't die, upon my honour! WOFF. Do you think I'll trust their lives with you? I'll show you how to run people through the body (_takes pen, writes_). Business, "Araminta looks out of garret window, the combatants drop their swords, put their hands to their hearts, and stagger off, O. P. and P. S." Now children! who helps me lay the cloth? CHIL. I, and I! (_they run to dresser._) MRS. T. (_half rising_). Madam, I can't think of allowing you. WOFF. Sit down ma'am, or I must use brute force (_in Mrs. T's ear_): shake hands with distress, for it shall never enter your door again. [_Mrs. T. clasps her hands._ (_Woff. meets the children with the tablecloth, which she lays._) Twelve plates, quick! twenty-four knives, quicker! forty-eight forks, quickest. [_Enter Pompey, who sets pie on table, and exit, looking wistfully at it._] Mr. Triplet,--your coat, if you please,--and carve. TRIP. My coat, madam!