Kitty Clive sank in a mock curtesy; the landlord roared with laughter; Mr. Bates stood amazed in the center of the room.
A QUESTION OF ART
I
If only she had a heart she would be perfect,” said Mr. Garrick to his friend, Mrs. Woffington.
“Ay, as an actress, not as a woman,” said Mrs. Woffington. “'T is not the perfect women who have been most liberally supplied with that organ.”
“Faith, Madam Peggy, I, David Garrick, of Drury Lane Theatre, have good reason to set much more store upon the perfect actress than the perfect woman,” said Mr. Garrick. “If I had no rent to pay and no actors to pay, I might be led to spend a profitable hour or two over the consideration of so interesting a question as the relative merits of the perfect woman with no heart worth speaking of and the perfect actress with a dangerous superfluity of the same organ. Under existing conditions, however, I beg leave to—”
“Psha! Davy,” said Margaret; “try not your scholarship upon so poor a thing as myself! It seems to me that you have never quite recovered from the effects of your early training at the feet of our friend, Mr. Johnson.”
“Alas! Peggy,” said Garrick, “I have forgot all the better part of Mr. Johnson's instruction. He has no reason to be proud of me.”