THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. You see, she didn’t know he was a lord.
DR. FREEMANTLE. Didn’t know—?
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. No. She married him, thinking him to be a plain Mr. Wetherell, an artist.
DR. FREEMANTLE. Where d’ye get all that from?
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. From Vernon himself. You’ve got his last letter, dear. [She has opened her chatelaine bag.] Oh, no, I’ve got it myself.
THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. He’s not going to break it to her till they reach here this evening.
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL [she reads]. Yes. “I shall not break it to her before we reach home. We were married quietly at the Hôtel de Ville, and she has no idea I am anything else than plain Vernon James Wetherell, a fellow-countryman of her own, and a fellow-artist. The dear creature has never even inquired whether I am rich or poor.” I like her for that.
DR. FREEMANTLE. You mean to tell me—[He jumps up. With his hands in his jacket pockets, he walks to and fro.] I suppose it’s possible.
THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. You see, she isn’t the ordinary class of music-hall singer.
DR. FREEMANTLE. I should say not.