THE MUSE OF TRAGEDY
I
Madam,” said Mr. Daly, the manager, in his politest style, “no one could regret the occurrence more than myself”—he pronounced the word “meself”—“especially as you say it has hurt your feelings. Do n't I know what feelings are?”—he pronounced the word “failings,” which tended in some measure to alter the effect of the phrase, though his friends would have been inclined to assert that its accuracy was not thereby diminished.
“I have been grossly insulted, sir,” said Mrs. Siddons.
“Grossly insulted,” echoed Mr. Siddons. He played the part of echo to his stately wife very well indeed.
“And it took place under your roof, sir,” said the lady.
“Your roof,” echoed the husband.
“And there's no one in the world sorrier than myself for it,” said Mr. Daly. “But I do n't think that you should take a joke of the college gentlemen so seriously.”
“Joke?” cried Mrs. Siddons, with a passion that caused the manager, in the instinct of self-preservation to jump back. “Joke, sir!—a joke passed upon Sarah Siddons! My husband, sir, whose honour I have ever upheld as dearer to me than life itself, will tell you that I am not accustomed to be made the subject of ribald jests.”
“I do n't know the tragedy that that quotation is made from,” remarked Mr. Daly, taking out his snuff-box and tapping it, affecting a coolness which he certainly was far from possessing; “but if it's all written in that strain I'll bring it out at Smock Alley and give you an extra benefit. You never spoke anything better than that phrase. Pray let us have it again, madam—'my husband, sir,' and so forth.”