ETHEL. But he doesn’t know it, dear. He can’t.
EDWIN. Why not?
ETHEL. Because it wasn’t in the paper, love. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Ta, ta. I’m going to put another dress on, and some more hair, and to go on just as if I wasn’t married, dear. He doesn’t know I am, because it wasn’t in the papers. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Not in one of them! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!
Exit, R.
EDWIN. I’ve made a horrible mistake. I ought to have pretended that it was put in the papers, every one of them, except the ones that can be got at Dumpington. A pretty mess my candour’s got me into. This is the consequence of telling one’s wife the truth. But who’d have thought that fellow with the whiskers would turn up? I did think that at last I’d given him the slip. He dogs me everywhere. I never could get half a dozen words with either Ethel or that Miss Carruthers, but he put his whiskers in between us, and it was all up with me. What chance has intellect with whiskers? I shall have to give the local barber half a sovereign to clip one off by accident. Meanwhile, the first thing I must do, must be to let him know that Ethel’s married. Oh, no, hang it, the first thing he’d do, would be to tell the tale to Miss Carruthers. I must be a bachelor again; there’s no help for it. It’ll at any rate be a relief to the monotony of Dumpington. On even terms I’d fight it out with pleasure, but I’m overweighted. Nature is not fair. She doesn’t divide the whiskers properly.
Enter MRS. PLUNGER, R., advancing quickly to him.
MRS. P. Oh, Mr. Larkspur, how d’you do? You can’t think how rejoiced I was to see you at the window just now; Dumpington is so extremely dull without society.
EDWIN. It is indeed. I’m sure I was entranced when I saw you. I was quite longing for a little change.
MRS. P. Have you been here some time?
EDWIN. Ten days—and I have seen about as many people. (they sit)