WOFF. (ironically). Of course not.
BOY (confidentially). Comedy is crying. Father cries all the time he writes his comedy.
WOFF. Oh!
TRIP. Hold your tongue. They were tears of laughter, you know, ma’am. Wife, our children talk too much; they thrust their noses into everything, and criticise their own father.
WOFF. Unnatural offspring!
TRIP. And when they take up a notion, the devil himself couldn’t convince them to the contrary; for instance, all this morning they thought fit to assume that they were starving.
BOY. So we were till the angel came, and the devil went for the pie.
TRIP. There, there, there, there! now, you mark my words, Jane, we shall never get that idea out of their heads——
WOFF. Till we (cuts a large piece of pie, and puts on child’s plate) put a different idea into their stomachs. Come, trinquons! as they do in France (fills glasses, and touches hers with those of the children, who crowd round her with delight). Were you ever in France, Triplet?
TRIP. No, madam, I am thoroughly original.