[Reseats herself, and takes up book.
Eliz. (takes off tea things). I tired! Oh, no, mum! (Returns.) Surely thirty waltzes or quadrilles wouldn’t tire me much; and there’s only two hours to sleep. It’s not worth while going to bed: so, if you please, mum, I’ll sit up with you.
[Sits on sofa.
Luc. It must, then, be that nephew, the son of his sister, of whom Mr. Mortimer always avoided speaking to me.
Cha. (in next room, uneasy). What on earth made her so anxious to know my name?
Luc. At any rate, I have his promise: that’s some consolation. By the way, Elizabeth, did you know Mr. Mortimer’s nephew?
Eliz. Well, yes,—little Charley Devereux. Oh, yes! I recollect; and I—I—(falling asleep and dreaming) thank you, sir: I don’t dance any more.
Cha. And to think she’ll leave without my seeing her face! It’s abominable!
[Rises.
Luc. (Looking at Elizabeth). She’s asleep, poor thing! She’ll catch cold.