Luc. He’s locked himself in. (Aloud.) Pardon me, sir, for troubling you; but—but—if I mistake not, you are Mr. Charles Devereux, the nephew of Mr. Mortimer.
Cha. I suppose you mean, madam, that that gentleman was my uncle. I don’t dispute the fact. (Aside.) How the mischief did she find that out? Ah! it’s that confounded landlord told her.
Luc. Well, sir, I’ve a most important communication to make to you from his adopted child.
Cha. But I don’t want to hear what she’s got to say, madam. You know her?
Luc. Yes, sir, I know her; and I also know that she has been seeking you for a long time, in order to give you up a fortune which by right belongs to you.
Cha. What you propose, madam, is ridiculous. I could never accept a farthing.
Luc. But suppose in seeing her you happen to like her, and that—
Cha. I shall never like her.
Luc. Perhaps you might. If she were like me, for instance?
Cha. Never, madam. I’m sworn celibacy,—a knight of Malta, in fact.