'
'Was not that the part you spoke that sympathetic speech out of for me
before dinner?'
'No, that was Justice Greedy,' said Devereux.
'Ay, so it was--was it?--that smothered his wife.'
'With a pudding clout,' persisted Devereux.
'No. With a--pooh!--a--you know--and stabbed himself,' continued
O'Flaherty.
'With a larding-pin--'tis written in good Italian.'
'Augh, not at all--it isn't Italian, but English, I'm thinking of--a
pilla, Puddock, you know--the _black_ rascal.'
'Well, English or Italian--tragedy or comedy,' said Devereux, who liked
Puddock, and would not annoy him, and saw he was hurt by Othello's
borrowing his properties from the kitchen; 'I venture to say you were
well entertained: and for my part, Sir, there are some characters'--(in
farce Puddock was really highly diverting)--'in which I prefer Puddock
to any player I every saw.'
'Oh--ho--ho!' laughed poor little Puddock, with a most gratified
derisiveness, for he cherished in secret a great admiration for
Devereux.
And so they talked stage-talk. Puddock lithping away, grand and
garrulous; O'Flaherty, the illiterate, blundering in with sincere
applause; and Devereux sipping his claret and dropping a quiet saucy
word now and again.
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