TRIP. No more is the manager of this theatre.
WOFF. What! has he accepted them?
TRIP. No! madam! he has had them six months and returned them without a word.
WOFF. Patience, my good sir, patience! authors of tragedies should learn that virtue of their audiences. Do you know I called on Mr. Rich fifteen times before I could see him?
TRIP. You, madam, impossible!
WOFF. Oh, it was some years ago—and he has had to pay a hundred pounds for each of those little visits—let me see,—fifteen times—you must write twelve more tragedies—sixty acts—and then he will read one, and give you his judgment at last, and when you have got it—it won’t be worth a farthing.
(turns up reading her part.)
TRIP. (aside). One word from this laughing lady, and all my plays would be read—but I dare not ask her—she is up in the world, I am down. She is great—I am nobody—besides they say she is all brains and no heart (crosses to L. Moves sorrowfully towards L. D., taking his picture).
WOFF. He looks like a fifth act of a domestic tragedy. Stop, surely I know that doleful face—Sir!