“And why don't you men carry yourself like Cibber here?”
“Don't press that question,” said Colley dryly.
“A monstrous poor actor, though,” said the merciless old woman, in a mock aside to the others; “only twenty shillings a week for half his life;” and her shoulders went up to her ears—then she fell into a half reverie. “Yes, we were distinct,” said she; “but I must own, children, we were slow. Once, in the midst of a beautiful tirade, my lover went to sleep, and fell against me. A mighty pretty epigram, twenty lines, was writ on't by one of my gallants. Have ye as many of them as we used?”
“In that respect,” said the page, “we are not behind our great-grandmothers.”
“I call that pert,” said Mrs. Bracegirdle, with the air of one drawing scientific distinctions. “Now, is that a boy or a lady that spoke to me last?”
“By its dress, I should say a boy,” said Cibber, with his glass; “by its assurance, a lady!”
“There's one clever woman among ye; Peg something, plays Lothario, Lady Betty Modish, and what not?”
“What! admire Woffington?” screamed Mrs. Clive; “why, she is the greatest gabbler on the stage.”
“I don't care,” was the reply, “there's nature about the jade. Don't contradict me,” added she, with sudden fury; “a parcel of children.”
“No, madam,” said Clive humbly. “Mr. Cibber, will you try and prevail on Mrs. Bracegirdle to favor us with a recitation?”