“I cannot conceive a higher compliment being paid to a woman, dear madam. But, in truth, I came to you because you are the only lady with whom I am acquainted who with a kind heart combines the highest intelligence. That is why you are our greatest actress. The highest intelligence is valueless on the stage unless it is associated with a heart that beats in sympathy with the sorrow and becomes exultant with the joy of others. That is why I regard myself as more than fortunate in having your promise to accept a part in my next comedy.” Mrs. Abington smiled as she saw through the very transparent art of the author, reminding her that she would have her reward if she helped him out of his difficulty. “I can understand how ladies look on you with great favour, sir,” said the actress. “Yes, in spite of your being--being--ah--innocent--a poet, and of possessing other disqualifications, you are a delightful man, Dr. Goldsmith; and by heaven, sir, I shall do what I can to--to--well, shall we say to put you in a position of earning the lady's gratitude?” “That is the position I long for, dear madam.” “Yes, but only to have the privilege of foregoing your claim. I know you, Dr. Goldsmith. Well, supposing you come to see me here in a day or two--that will give both of us a chance of still further considering the possibility of successfully entrapping our friend the Captain. I believe it was the lady who suggested the trap to you; you, being a man, were doubtless for running your enemy through the vitals or for cutting his throat without the delay of a moment.” “Your judgment is unerring, Mrs. Abington.” “Ah, you see, it is the birds that have been in the trap who know most about it. Besides, does not our dear dead friend Will Shakespeare say, 'Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps'?” “Those are his words, madam, though at this moment I cannot quite perceive their bearing.” “Oh, lud! Why, dear sir, Cupid's mother's daughters resemble their little step-brother in being fond of a change of weapons, and you, sir, I perceive, have been the victim of a dart. Now, I must hasten to dress for my part or there will be what Mr. Daly of Smock Alley, Dublin, used to term 'ructions.'” She gave him her hand with a delightful smile and hurried off, but not before he had bowed over her hand, imprinting on it a clumsy but very effective kiss. He remained in the theatre until the close of the performance; for he was not so utterly devoid of guile as not to know that if he had departed without witnessing Mrs. Abington in the second piece she would have regarded him as far from civil. Seeing him in a side box, however, that clever lady perceived that he had taste as well as tact. She felt that it was a pleasure to do anything for such a man--especially as he was a writer of plays. It would be an additional pleasure to her if she could so interpret a character in a play of his that the play should be the most notable success of the season.