MRS. G. And so as you know, Betsy, I took you with me and crossed to Boulogne. What I suffered from the roughness of the waves and the custom-house officers I need not repeat. I didn’t however think of anything but the joyful surprise it would be to Mr. Greenfinch when I should drop suddenly like a lump of sugar out of heaven into his solitary tea.
BETSY. Yes, mum, but you know I had my suspicions that it wasn’t the lawyers kept master in Paris—so I persuaded you to take lodgings opposite the hotel where he was stopping, and keep a watchful eye on his proceedings from the window, with your veil down.
MRS. G. Yes, Betsy, that was certainly your plan,—and what has been the consequence? The very first day my gentleman kissed his hand to me—the second day he performed a love pantomime at his window for my diversion—and the third day he sent me a daguerreotype portrait of himself backed by a Westphalia ham.
BETSY. And before the week was out you had induced him to run away with you.
MRS. G. I’ll never forgive him that.
BETSY. Of course you won’t—you’ve too much spirit to forgive any man, much less a husband. Now, mum, if you’ll help me in a little plan I’ve hit upon, I think we’ll torment him to that degree that he’ll never hear a Countess mentioned without trembling.
MRS. G. I’ll do anything, Betsy, to make the little wretch miserable.
BETSY. Well then, mum, this is my plan.
GREENFINCH speaks outside, L. 3 E.