Nokes [impatiently]. Tell her to go to—the ground floor. Tell her you are going to be married to me within the week, and order a wedding-breakfast—for two—immediately.
Susan [aside]. I can never tell her that, for she is a Frenchwoman, and wouldn't believe it. I'll tell her something more melodramatic. I'll say that Mr. Nokes is my father, who has suddenly recognized and discovered his long-lost child.—Madame, c'est mon père longtemps absent, qui vous en prie d'accepter ses remerciments pour votre bonté à son enfant.
Mistress of the hotel [all smiles, and with both hands outstretched]. Milor, I do congratulate you. Fortunate Susan! You will nevare forget to recommend de hotel?
Nokes. Thank you, thank you; you're a sensible old woman. [Aside] She evidently sees no absurd disproportion in our years.—Breakfast, breakfast!—déjeûner à la what-do-you-call-it! champagne! [Exit landlady, smiling and bowing.]
Nokes. In the mean time, Susan, put on your bonnet and let's go out to—whatever they call Doctors' Commons here—and order a special license. [Susan goes.] Stop a bit, Susan; you forget something. [Kisses her.] [Aside] I did not like to dwell upon the idea before, but she's got a most uncommon pretty mouth.
SCENE II.—Drawing-room at the Tamarisks. Garden and Sea in the distance. Grand piano, harp, sketch-book; and huge portfolio.
Nokes [less gayly attired: solus]. Gad, I feel rather nervous. There's Sponge, and Rasper, and Robinson, all coming down by the mid-day train to lunch with me and my new wife,—the Montmorenci, as they imagine. It's impossible that Susan can keep up such a delusion, and especially as she insists on talking English. She says her French is so vulgar. But there! I don't care how she talks or what she talks, bless her. Everything sounds well from those charming lips. She's a kind-hearted, good girl, and worth eight hundred dozen (as I should say if I hadn't left the wine-trade) of the other one. There was something wrong about that Montmorenci vintage, for all her sparkle; corked or something. Now, my Susan's all good,—good the second day, good the third day, good every day. She's like port—all the better for keeping; and she's not like port—because there's no crustiness about her. She's a deuced clever woman. To hear her talk broken English when the squire's wife called here the other day was as good as a play. Everybody hereabouts believes she's a Frenchwoman; but then they're all country-people, and they'll believe anything. Sponge and Rasper and Robinson are all London born,—especially Rasper,—and London people believe nothing. They only give credit.
Enter Susan, in an in-door morning dress, but gloved.
Nokes. Well, my darling, have you screwed your courage up to meet these three gentlemen? Upon my life, I think it would be better if I told them at once that I had been jilted, and instead of the Montmorenci had found The Substitute infinitely preferable to the original; for I'm sure I have, Susan [fondly].