[Dreamy eyes on the cedar over the cottage.] The moon’s beautiful, sir!
Sanford.
[With a pitying snort.] Beautiful! Why, Martin, beautiful’s no word for it! She—she’s elegant! Magnificent—er—“magnifique,” I think the French would call it! Such a romantic language, French! Mrs. McCormorant’s kept a French maid for years! But of course you couldn’t be expected to know, or—[A sentimental hand on his heart.] or feel——!
Martin.
[Suddenly attentive.] Not a pain, sir, in your heart?
Sanford.
[Starting irritably.] Pain?—in my heart? What are you talking about?
Martin.
Beg pardon, sir, but I understood the doctor said——
Sanford.