TRIP. To bring the husband to his wife's feet--and so to save one angel--that's the lady in the other room--from despair; and another angel--that's you, from a great crime. Trust poor Jemmy Triplet for once to bring this domestic drama to a happy denouement! [_Exit L._ WOFF. How innocently he helps my plot! I must have all the puppets under my hand. If I know Sir Charles, he is still on the watch (_goes to window_). Yes! (_goes to inner door_) Here--your eldest boy, Mrs. Triplet; I want him (_enter Lysimachus R. door_). Lysimachus, you see that gentleman, run down--give him this letter--and then show him up here (_exit Lysimachus L. door_). And now Mrs. Vane's mantle, the hood well forward--so--we are nearly of a height--he does not know I am here--if I can but imitate her voice and rustic shyness--_allons_, Peggy 'tis seldom you acted in so good a cause (_she assumes the air of Mrs. Vane_). [_Enter Pomander behind--Woffington appears sunk in grief--he comes forward--she starts and gives a little shriek._] POM. My dear Mrs. Vane (_she shrinks_). Do not be alarmed--loveliness neglected, and simplicity deceived, give irresistible claims to respect as well as adoration. Had fate given me this hand (_he takes her hand_)-- WOFF. Oh, please sir! POM. Would I have abandoned it for that of a Woffington--as artificial and hollow a jade as ever winked at a side-box. Oh, had I been your husband, madam--how would I have revelled in the pastoral pleasures you so sweetly recalled yesterday--the Barbary mare-- WOFF. (_timidly_). Hen! POM. Ah, yes, the Barbary hen; and old dame--dame-- WOFF. Best, please sir! POM. Yes, Best--that happy though elderly female for whom you have condescended to make puddings. WOFF. Alas, sir! POM. You sigh! It is not yet too late to convert me. Upon this white hand I swear to become your pupil, as I am your adorer (_he kisses it_); let me thus fetter it with a worthy manacle. (_Aside._ What will innocence say to my five hundred guinea diamond?) WOFF. La, sir! how pretty! POM. Let me show how poor its lustre is to that of your eyes (_he tries to draw back her hood_). WOFF. Oh, sir--hark! (_she suddenly starts away and listens in an attitude of alarm_). POM. Ah! (_noise without_). Footsteps on the stairs! (_goes to door and opens it, listening_). VANE (_without_). Another flight! POM. Ha! Vane's voice, by all that's mal-à-propos; (_Woffington screams and rushes into inner apartment_) and now for Monsieur le mari (_Triplet appears at the door leading to the staircase, with his back to the stage and speaking off_). TRIP. Have a care, sir! There is a hiatus in the fourth step--and now for the friend who waits to forget grief and suspicion in your arms--that friend is---- [_Enter Vane--Triplet turns round and recognizes Pomander._] The Devil! POM. You flatter me! VANE. So this is the mysterious rencontre--pray, Sir Charles, what is it you want to forget in my arms?