“And it was in a farce of my own, madam, which, by the strangest combination of accidents, was damned!”
“A play-writer? Oh, what clever men there are in the world—in London, at least! He is a play-writer, too. I wonder my husband comes not. Does Mr. Vane—does Mr. Vane admire this actress?” said she, suddenly.
“Mr. Vane, madam, is a gentleman of taste,” said he, pompously.
“Well, sir,” said the lady, languidly, “she is not here.” Triplet took the hint and rose. “Good-by,” said she, sweetly; and thank you kindly for your company.
“Triplet, madam—James Triplet, of 10, Hercules Buildings, Lambeth. Occasional verses, odes, epithalamia, elegies, dedications, squibs, impromptus and hymns executed with spirit, punctuality and secrecy. Portraits painted, and instruction in declamation, sacred, profane and dramatic. The card, madam” (and he drew it as doth a theatrical fop his rapier) “of him who, to all these qualifications adds a prouder still—that of being,
“Madam,
“Your humble, devoted and grateful servant,
“JAMES TRIPLET.”
He bowed in a line from his right shoulder to his left toe, and moved off. But Triplet could not go all at one time out of such company; he was given to return in real life, he had played this trick so often on the stage. He came back, exuberant with gratitude.
“The fact is, madam,” said he, “strange as it may appear to you, a kind hand has not so often been held out to me, that I should forget it, especially when that hand is so fair and gracious. May I be permitted, madam—you will impute it to gratitude rather than audacity—I—I—” (whimper), “madam” (with sudden severity), “I am gone!”