“Oh, please, sir—”
“With the profoundest respect, would I have abandoned such a treasure for an actress?—a Woffington! as artificial and hollow a jade as ever winked at a side box!”
“Is she, sir?”
“Notorious, madam. Your husband is the only man in London who does not see through her. How different are you! Even I, who have no taste for actresses, found myself revived, refreshed, ameliorated by that engaging picture of innocence and virtue you drew this morning; yourself the bright and central figure. Ah, dear angel! I remember all your favorites, and envy them their place in your recollections. Your Barbary mare—”
“Hen, sir!
“Of course I meant hen; and Gray Gillian, his old nurse—”
“No, no, no! she is the mare, sir. He! he! he!”
“So she is. And Dame—Dame—”
“Best!”
“Ah! I knew it. You see how I remember them all. And all carry me back to those innocent days which fleet too soon—days when an angel like you might have weaned me from the wicked pleasures of the town, to the placid delights of a rural existence!”