“Nothing is certain in this life, sir, except that you are a goose. It succeeded in France; and England can match all Europe for fools. Besides, it will be well done. They say Davy Garrick can turn his eyes into bottled gooseberries. Well, Peg Woffington will turn hers into black currants. Haven't you done? I wonder they have not come. Make haste!” “They will know by its beauty I never did it.” “That is a sensible remark, Trip. But I think they will rather argue backward; that, as you did it, it cannot be beautiful, and so cannot be me. Your reputation will be our shield.” “Well, madam, now you mention it, they are like enough to take that ground. They despise all I do; if they did not--” “You would despise them.” At this moment the pair were startled by the sound of a coach. Triplet turned as pale as ashes. Mrs. Woffington had her misgivings; but, not choosing to increase the difficulty, she would not let Triplet, whose self-possession she doubted, see any sign of emotion in her. “Lock the door,” said she, firmly, “and don't be silly. Now hold up my green baize petticoat, and let me be in a half-light. Now put that table and those chairs before me, so that they can't come right up to me; and, Triplet, don't let them come within six yards, if you can help it. Say it is unfinished, and so must be seen from a focus.” “A focus! I don't know what you mean.” “No more do I; no more will they, perhaps; and if they don't they will swallow it directly. Unlock the door. Are they coming?” “They are only at the first stair.” “Mr. Triplet, your face is a book, where one may read strange matters. For Heaven's sake, compose yourself. Let all the risk lie in one countenance. Look at me, sir. Make your face like the Book of Daniel in a Jew's back parlor. Volto Sciolto is your cue.” “Madam, madam, how your tongue goes! I hear them on the stairs. Pray don't speak!” “Do you know what we are going to do?” continued the tormenting Peggy. “We are going to weigh goose's feathers! to criticise criticism, Trip--” “Hush! hush!” A grampus was heard outside the door, and Triplet opened it. There was Quin leading the band. “Have a care, sir,” cried Triplet; “there is a hiatus the third step from the door.” “A _gradus ad Parnassum_ a wanting,” said Mr. Cibber. Triplet's heart sank. The hole had been there six months, and he had found nothing witty to say about it, and at first sight Mr. Cibber had done its business. And on such men he and his portrait were to attempt a preposterous delusion. Then there was Snarl, who wrote critiques on painting, and guided the national taste. The unlucky exhibitor was in a cold sweat. He led the way, like a thief going to the gallows. “The picture being unfinished, gentlemen,” said he, “must, if you would do me justice, be seen from a--a focus; must be judged from here, I mean.” “Where, sir?” said Mr. Cibber. “About here, sir, if you please,” said poor Triplet faintly.