“I beg—your par—don, sir!” holding the book on a level with her eye, she had nearly run over “two poets instead of one.”
“Nay, madam,” said Triplet, admiring, though sad, wretched, but polite, “pray continue. Happy the hearer, and still happier the author of verses so spoken. Ah!”
“Yes,” replied the lady, “if you could persuade authors what we do for them, when we coax good music to grow on barren words. Are you an author, sir?” added she, slyly.
“In a small way, madam. I have here three trifles—tragedies.”
Mrs. Woffington looked askant at them, like a shy mare.
“Ah, madam!” said Triplet, in one of his insane fits, “if I might but submit them to such a judgment as yours?”
He laid his hand on them. It was as when a strange dog sees us go to take up a stone.
The actress recoiled.
“I am no judge of such things,” cried she, hastily.
Triplet bit his lip. He could have killed her. It was provoking, people would rather be hanged than read a manuscript. Yet what hopeless trash they will read in crowds, which was manuscript a day ago. Les imbeciles!