Mrs. F.—And if she did, sir,—if the public were so unjust,—how great would be the consolation to you to know that you partially repaired the injury by paying the dear child a salary!
Manager.—I am afraid, madam, I could not proceed on that plan.
Mrs. F.—You will excuse my saying, sir, that you have strange notions of liberality; but you shall hear her sing. Come, my dear, let's have the Baccy-role; it's beautiful in your mouth, my dear.
Manager.—(Aside.) Baccy-role, indeed! (Aloud.) Let's hear you, my dear.
(Miss F. looks stupid and does not sing a note. Mrs. F. moving her hands and arms, sing for her very badly, a bit of the Barcarole from Musaniello.)
Mrs. F.—You see, sir, that's what the dear child means; though she can't do it before you, she is so nervous. But all that will wear off when she gets before the audience.
Manager.—It's to be hoped so, but what can the young gentleman do?
Mrs. F.—What can he do! anything—he's a dancer; his pirouettes are tremendous: only look here! (She turns him round and round till he falls down giddy.) See! he spins like a top; in fact he'll soon be the top of his profession.
Manager.—Why, bless the boy! you don't call that dancing, do you?
Mrs. F.—Of course: the dear boy has over-exerted himself, that's all; but he'll soon come round.