Fle. Oh!——well, there. (tears up letter.)
Hol. Bless you! Bless—don’t mind me—I’m an old fool. Explain it to her. If I could speak to her, I——explain to her what you wish. She’ll play it to perfection. She has intelligence—you have not observed it. Ah! you don’t know her—she’s a genius.
Fle. You speak of Miss Belmour? (knock and bell.)
Hol. Hush! some one’s called. It is she!
Fle. How do you know?
Hol. It is she, I tell you. I am not mistaken—it is she!
Fle. Well, this is the most singular—
Enter CONSTANCE, door C.
Hol. (to FLETCHER) I was right, you see.
Con. Good morning, my dear Mr. Fletcher. What nice chambers you have here—only a little high.