Whi. Yes, how de do? I’m quite well. So’s Matilda.
Tom. That name!
Whi. She’s downstairs, with Miss Effingham.
Tom. Downstairs! And does she—don’t think I ask from an improper motive—does she ever talk about me? (Sits.)
Whi. Never mentions you by any chance. But she often drops a tear to the memory of poor dead-and-gone Tom Cobb.
Tom. Oh! she does that, does she? That’s rather nasty for you, isn’t it?
Whi. Not a bit. (Sits.) It does her credit, and I honour her for it. The poor fellow’s dead, and there’s an end to him. I loved him as a brother! (Wiping his eye.) He did my botany papers for me at the College. But it’s no use repining. No power on earth can bring him to life again, now. How she loved that man!
Tom (half sobbing). Oh, Matilda! Be good to her, Whipple.
Whi. I will, General; trust me.
Tom. Is she—is she as fond of the theatre as ever!