“No more is the manager of this theater a judge of such things,” cried the outraged quill-driver, bitterly.
“What! has he accepted them?” said needle-tongue.
“No, madam, he has had them six months, and see, madam, he has returned them me without a word.”
Triplet's lip trembled.
“Patience, my good sir,” was the merry reply. “Tragic authors should possess that, for they teach it to their audiences. Managers, sir, are like Eastern monarchs, inaccessible but to slaves and sultanas. Do you know I called upon Mr. Rich fifteen times before I could see him?”
“You, madam? Impossible!”
“Oh, it was years ago, and he has paid a hundred pounds for each of those little visits. Well, now, let me see, fifteen times; you must write twelve more tragedies, and then he will read one; and when he has read it, he will favor you with his judgment upon it; and when you have got that, you will have what all the world knows is not worth a farthing. He! he! he!
'And like the birds, gay Nature's happy commoners,
Rifle the sweets'—mum—mum—mum.”
Her high spirits made Triplet sadder. To think that one word from this laughing lady would secure his work a hearing, and that he dared not ask her. She was up in the world, he was down. She was great, he was nobody. He felt a sort of chill at this woman—all brains and no heart. He took his picture and his plays under his arms and crept sorrowfully away.
The actress's eye fell on him as he went off like a fifth act. His Don Quixote face struck her. She had seen it before.