WOFF. Yes; off with it, there's a hole in it (_Triplet, with signs of astonishment, gives her his coat, then carves pie: they eat. Woff. seats herself_). Be pleased to cast your eye on that, ma'am (_boy passes housewife to Mrs. Triplet_). Woffington's housewife, made by herself, homely to the eye, but holds everything in the world, and has a small space left for everything else; to be returned by the bearer. Thank you, sir! (_stitches away very rapidly_) Eat away; children, when once I begin the pie will soon end; (_girl takes plate to her mother_), I do everything so quick. GIRL. The lady sews faster than you, mother. WOFF. Bless the child, don't come near my sword-arm, the needle will go into your eye, and out at the back of your head (_children laugh_). The needle will be lost, the child will be no more, enter undertaker, house turned topsyturvy, father shows Woffington the door, off she goes, with a face as long and as dull as papa's comedy, crying, "Fine Chaney o-ran-ges!" [_The children laugh heartily._ GIRL. Mother! the lady is very funny! WOFF. You'll be as funny when you're as well paid for it. [_Triplet chokes with laughing, and lays down knife and fork._] MRS. T. James, take care! WOFF. There's the man's coat, (_aside_) with a ten pound note in it. [_Girl takes it to Triplet._ TRIP. My wife is a good woman, ma'am, but deficient in an important particular. MRS. T. Oh, James! TRIP. Yes, my dear, I regret to say you have _no sense of humour:_ no more than a cat, Jane. WOFF. What! because the poor thing can't laugh at your comedy? TRIP. No ma'am, but she laughs at nothing. WOFF. Try her with one of your tragedies! MRS. T. I am sure, James, if I don't laugh, it is not for the want of the will. (_Dolefully_) I used to be a very hearty laugher; but I haven't laughed this two years (_Woffington leads Mrs. T. to chair_). WOFF. Oh, you haven't, haven't you? Then the next two years you shall do nothing else. TRIP. Oh, madam, that passes the talent even of the great comedian. BOY. _She_ is not a comedy lady. WOFF. Hallo! BOY. You don't ever cry, pretty lady. WOFF. (_ironically_). Of course not. BOY (_confidentially_). Comedy is crying. Father cries all the time he writes his comedy. WOFF. Oh! TRIP. Hold your tongue. They were tears of laughter, you know, ma'am. Wife, our children talk too much; they thrust their noses into everything, and criticise their own father. WOFF. Unnatural offspring! TRIP. And when they take up a notion, the devil himself couldn't convince them to the contrary; for instance, all this morning they thought fit to assume that they were starving. BOY. So we were till the angel came, and the devil went for the pie. TRIP. There, there, there, there! now, you mark my words, Jane, we shall never get that idea out of their heads----