“You are fortunate,” continued Mrs. Woffington, not caring what she said; “it is so difficult to make execution keep pace with conception.” “Yes, ma'am;” and he painted on. “You are satisfied with it?” “Anything but, ma'am;” and he painted on. “Cheerful soul!--then I presume it is like?” “Not a bit, ma'am;” and he painted on. Mrs. Woffington stretched. “You can't yawn, ma'am--you can't yawn.” “Oh, yes, I can. You are such good company;” and she stretched again. “I was just about to catch the turn of the lip,” remonstrated Triplet. “Well, catch it--it won't run away.” “I'll try, ma'am. A pleasant half-hour it will be for me, when they all come here like cits at a shilling ordinary--each for his cut.” “At a sensitive goose!” “That is as may be, madam. Those critics flay us alive!” “You should not hold so many doors open to censure.” “No, ma'am. Head a little more that way. I suppose you _can't_ sit quiet, ma'am?--then never mind!” (This resignation was intended as a stinging reproach.) “Mr. Cibber, with his sneering snuff-box! Mr. Quin, with his humorous bludgeon! Mrs. Clive, with her tongue! Mr. Snarl, with his abuse! And Mr. Soaper, with his praise!--arsenic in treacle I call it! But there, I deserve it all! For look on this picture, and on this!” “Meaning, I am painted as well as my picture!” “Oh, no, no, no! But to turn from your face, madam--on which the lightning of expression plays, continually--to this stony, detestable, dead daub!--I could--And I will, too! Imposture! dead caricature of life and beauty, take that!” and he dashed his palette-knife through the canvas. “Libelous lie against nature and Mrs. Woffington, take that!” and he stabbed the canvas again; then, with sudden humility: “I beg your pardon, ma'am,” said he, “for this apparent outrage, which I trust you will set down to the excitement attendant upon failure. The fact is, I am an incapable ass, and no painter! Others have often hinted as much; but I never observed it myself till now!” “Right through my pet dimple!” said Mrs. Woffington, with perfect _nonchalance._ “Well, now I suppose I may yawn, or do what I like?” “You may, madam,” said Triplet, gravely. “I have forfeited what little control I had over you, madam.” So they sat opposite each other, in mournful silence. At length the actress suddenly rose. She struggled fiercely against her depression, and vowed that melancholy should not benumb her spirits and her power. “He ought to have been here by this time,” said she to herself. “Well, I will not mope for him. I must do something. Triplet,” said she. “Madam.” “Nothing.” “No, madam.” She sat gently down again, and leaned her head on her hand, and thought. She was beautiful as she thought!--her body seemed bristling with mind! At last, her thoughtful gravity was illumined by a smile. She had thought out something _excogitaverat._ “Triplet, the picture is quite ruined!” “Yes, madam. And a coach-load of criticism coming!”