“Then, faith, sir, 'tis lucky that I did not say anything to turn your head. Dr. Goldsmith, my heart is moved already. See how easy it is for a great author to effect his object where a poor actress is concerned. And you have begun the comedy, sir?” “I cannot begin it until I get rid of a certain tragedy that is in the air. I want your assistance in that direction.” “What! Do you mistake the farce of drubbing a critic for a tragedy, Dr. Goldsmith?” “Psha, madam! What do you take me for? Even if I were as poor a critic as Kenrick I could still discriminate between one and t' other. Can you give me half an hour of your time, Mrs. Abington?” “With all pleasure, sir. We shall sit down. You wear a tragedy face, Dr. Goldsmith.” “I need to do so, madam, as I think you will allow when you hear all I have to tell you.” “Oh, lud! You frighten me. Pray begin, sir.” “How shall I begin? Have you ever had to encounter the devil, madam?” “Frequently, sir. Alas! I fear that I have not always prevailed against him as successfully as you did in your encounter with one of his family--a critic. Your story promises to be more interesting than your face suggested.” “I have to encounter a devil, Mrs. Abington, and I come to you for help.” “Then you must tell me if your devil is male or female. If the former I think I can promise you my help; if the latter, do not count on me. When the foul fiend assumes the form of an angel of light--which I take to be the way St. Paul meant to convey the idea of a woman--he is too powerful for me, I frankly confess.” “Mine is a male fiend.” “Not the manager of a theatre--another form of the same hue?” “Nay, dear madam, there are degrees of blackness.” “Ah, yes; positive bad, comparative Baddeley, superlative Colman.” “If I could compose a phrase like that, Mrs. Abington, I should be the greatest wit in London, and ruin my life going from coffee house to coffee house repeating it.” “Pray do not tell Mrs. Baddeley that I made it, sir.” “How could I, madam, when you have just told me that a she-devil was more than you could cope with?” CHAPTER XXII. And now, sir, to face the particulars--to proceed from the fancy embroidery of wit to the solid fabric of fact--who or what is the aggressive demon that you want exorcised?” “His name is Jackson--he calls himself Captain Jackson,” replied Oliver. He had not made up his mind how much he should tell of Mary Horneck's story. He blamed Boswell for interrupting his consideration of this point after he had dined; though it is doubtful if he would have made any substantial advance in that direction even if the unhappy Scotchman had not thrust himself and his grievance upon him.