They are puppets--all attitude and trick; she is all ease, grace and nature." "Nature!" cried Pomander.

_"Laissez-moi tranquille._ They have artifice--nature's libel.

She has art--nature's counterfeit." "Her voice is truth told by music," cried the poetical lover; "theirs are jingling instruments of falsehood." "They are all instruments," said the satirist; "she is rather the best tuned and played." "Her face speaks in every lineament; theirs are rouged and wrinkled masks." "Her mask is the best made, mounted, and moved; that is all." "She is a fountain of true feeling." "No; a pipe that conveys it without spilling or holding a drop." "She is an angel of talent, sir." "She's a devil of deception." "She is a divinity to worship." "She's a woman to fight shy of.

There is not a woman in London better known," continued Sir Charles.

"She is a fair actress on the boards, and a great actress off them; but I can tell you how to add a new charm to her." "Heaven can only do that," said Vane, hastily.
"Yes, you can.