“In short,” said Triplet, recapitulating, “being blessed with health, and more tastes in the arts than most, and a cheerful spirit, I should be wrong, madam, to repine; and this day, in particular, is a happy one,” added the rose colorist, “since the great Mrs. Woffington has deigned to remember me, and call me friend.” Such was Triplet's summary. Mrs. Woffington drew out her memorandum-book, and took down her summary of the crafty Triplet's facts. So easy is it for us Triplets to draw the wool over the eyes of women and Woffingtons. “Triplet, discharged from scene-painting; wife, no engagement; four children supported by his pen--that is to say, starving; lose no time!” She closed her book; and smiled, and said: “I wish these things were comedies instead of trash-edies, as the French call them; we would cut one in half, and slice away the finest passages, and then I would act in it; and you would see how the stage-door would fly open at sight of the author.” “O Heaven!” said poor Trip, excited by this picture. “I'll go home, and write a comedy this moment.” “Stay!” said she; “you had better leave the tragedies with me.” “My dear madam! You will read them?” “Ahem! I will make poor Rich read them.” “But, madam, he has rejected them.” “That is the first step. Reading them comes after, when it comes at all. What have you got in that green baize?” “In this green baize?” “Well, in this green baize, then.” “Oh madam! nothing--nothing! To tell the truth, it is an adventurous attempt from memory. I saw you play Silvia, madam; I was so charmed, that I came every night. I took your face home with me--forgive my presumption, madam--and I produced this faint adumbration, which I expose with diffidence.” So then he took the green baize off. The color rushed into her face; she was evidently gratified. Poor, silly Mrs. Triplet was doomed to be right about this portrait. “I will give you a sitting,” said she. “You will find painting dull faces a better trade than writing dull tragedies. Work for other people's vanity, not your own; that is the art of art. And now I want Mr. Triplet's address.” “On the fly-leaf of each work, madam,” replied that florid author, “and also at the foot of every page which contains a particularly brilliant passage, I have been careful to insert the address of James Triplet, painter, actor, and dramatist, and Mrs. Woffington's humble, devoted servant.” He bowed ridiculously low, and moved toward the door; but something gushed across his heart, and he returned with long strides to her. “Madam!” cried he, with a jaunty manner, “you have inspired a son of Thespis with dreams of eloquence, you have tuned in a higher key a poet's lyre, you have tinged a painter's existence with brighter colors, and--and--” His mouth worked still, but no more artificial words would come. He sobbed out, “and God in heaven bless you, Mrs. Woffington!” and ran out of the room.