Duke. Yes, I suppose there were no more to be had.
Tom. Very probable. Who is the employer?
Duke. The Princess Blakowska.
Tom. A Princess! That promises well for the cook.
Duke. Yes, I've been up to London, to try to find her in Berkeley Square. She was out. Now I'm going to see if she's at Penge. We've exchanged letters already—we've had a wonderful correspondence, even though it began on what is generally considered an unromantic subject. She came across my life at a time when it was overshadowed by misfortune; my French chef had just left me to go to America.
Tom. To be sure—he would.
Duke. But she brought light into the gloom. I took up the Times one morning in despair.
Tom. Yes, lots of people feel that way when they take up the Times.
Duke. But that day I found comfort in it. I scanned the advertisements; then I read, "A Russian Princess strongly recommends her admirable cook." Imagine! I wrote to the Princess in words of burning anxiety. She answered. I wrote again. She replied by a letter breathing sympathy and comprehension in every line. Listen. [He draws out letter and reads it]. "The Princess Blakowska presents her compliments to the Duke of Peckham Rye. She deeply sympathises with the unfortunate predicament in which he finds himself, and will indeed be glad to hear that he has secured the services of an artist like Susan Jennings." What feeling! What tenderness! How she understands! Don't you see her? Can you not evoke her?
Tom. Well, I never had your imagination, you know, Pecky, especially as regards the ladies.