“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.”