James. (Toasting.) No, sir.
Carve. I only wanted to know the worst. Silly joke about the fertility of curates—you've met with it, no doubt!
James. Your tone is simply lamentable, sir.
Janet. (To James.) Mind! You can do the other side. Now, take care; the fire's very hot. (In the same mild tone to Mrs. Shawn.) Twenty-six years, you say?
Mrs. S. Yes. Albert was twenty-two then, weren't you, Albert?
Carve. Undoubtedly.
Janet. And how did you come to find us out at last?
Mrs. S. It was through an advertisement put in the paper by that Mr. Texel—him that's in this law case—offering a reward for information about a Mr. Albert Shawn who'd been valet to that artist man that died.
Janet. Oh! So Mr. Texel has been advertising, has he? (Giving a cup of tea to John Shawn.)
Mrs. S. Yes, for anybody that knew Albert Shawn when he was young. "Albert Shawn," I says, "that's my husband's name." I'd been told he'd gone off in service with a painter or something of that kind. I married him as a valet.