“Mrs. Woffington,” said Mr. Triplet to his wife. Mrs. Woffington planted herself in the middle of the floor, and with a comical glance, setting her arms akimbo, uttered a shrill whistle. “Now you will see another angel--there are two sorts of them.” Pompey came in with a basket; she took it from him. “Lucifer, avaunt!” cried she, in a terrible tone, that drove him to the wall; “and wait outside the door,” added she, conversationally. “I heard you were ill, ma'am, and I have brought you some physic--black draughts from Burgundy;” and she smiled. And, recovered from their first surprise, young and old began to thaw beneath that witching, irresistible smile. “Mrs. Triplet, I have come to give your husband a sitting; will you allow me to eat my little luncheon with you? I am so hungry.” Then she clapped her hands, and in ran Pompey. She sent him for a pie she professed to have fallen in love with at the corner of the street. “Mother,” said Alcibiades, “will the lady give me a bit of her pie?” “Hush! you rude boy!” cried the mother. “She is not much of a lady if she does not,” cried Mrs. Woffington. “Now, children, first let us look at--ahem--a comedy. Nineteen _dramatis personae!_ What do you say, children, shall we cut out seven, or nine? that is the question. You can't bring your armies into our drawing-rooms, Mr. Dagger-and-bowl. Are you the Marlborough of comedy? Can you marshal battalions on a turkey carpet, and make gentlefolks witty in platoons? What is this in the first act? A duel, and both wounded! You butcher!” “They are not to die, ma'am!” cried Triplet, deprecatingly “upon my honor,” said he, solemnly, spreading his bands on his bosom. “Do you think I'll trust their lives with you? No! Give me a pen; this is the way we run people through the body.” Then she wrote (“business.” Araminta looks out of the garret window. Combatants drop their swords, put their hands to their hearts, and stagger off O. P. and P. S.) “Now, children, who helps me to lay the cloth?” “I!” “And I!” (The children run to the cupboard.) _Mrs. Triplet_ (half rising). “Madam, I--can't think of allowing you.” Mrs. Woffington replied: “Sit down, madam, or I must use brute force. If you are ill, be ill--till I make you well. Twelve plates, quick! Twenty-four knives, quicker! Forty-eight forks quickest!” She met the children with the cloth and laid it; then she met them again and laid knives and forks, all at full gallop, which mightily excited the bairns. Pompey came in with the pie, Mrs. Woffington took it and set it before Triplet. _Mrs. Woffington._ “Your coat, Mr. Triplet, if you please.” _Mr. Triplet._ “My coat, madam!”