“Yes,” was the reply; but into that “yes” she threw a whole sentence of meaning. “Fine cha-ney oranges!” chanted she, to put the matter beyond dispute.
“Am I really so honored as to have patted you on that queen-like head!” and he glared at it.
“On the same head which now I wear,” replied she, pompously. “I kept it for the convaynience hintirely, only there's more in it. Well, Mr. Triplet, you see what time has done for me; now tell me whether he has been as kind to you. Are you going to speak to me, Mr. Triplet?”
As a decayed hunter stands lean and disconsolate, head poked forward like a goose's, but if hounds sweep by his paddock in full cry, followed by horses who are what he was not, he does, by reason of the good blood that is and will be in his heart, dum spiritus hoss regit artus, cock his ears, erect his tail, and trot fiery to his extremest hedge, and look over it, nostril distended, mane flowing, and neigh the hunt onward like a trumpet; so Triplet, who had manhood at bottom, instead of whining out his troubles in the ear of encouraging beauty, as a sneaking spirit would, perked up, and resolved to put the best face upon it all before so charming a creature of the other sex.
“Yes, madam,” cried he, with the air of one who could have smacked his lips, “Providence has blessed me with an excellent wife and four charming children. My wife was Miss Chatterton; you remember her?”
“Yes! Where is she playing now?”
“Why, madam, her health is too weak for it.”
“Oh!—You were scene-painter. Do you still paint scenes?”
“With the pen, madam, not the brush. As the wags said, I transferred the distemper from my canvas to my imagination.” And Triplet laughed uproariously.
When he had done, Mrs. Woffington, who had joined the laugh, inquired quietly whether his pieces had met with success.