Bartlett.—"No, Constance, you are wrong, for once. Hear my dreadful secret; I'm not what I seem,—the light and joyous creature I look,—I'm an emotional wreck. Three short years ago, I was frightfully jilted"—they all turn upon him in surprise—"by a young person who, I'm sorry to say, hasn't yet consoled me by turning out a scamp."
Constance, drifting to his side with a radiant smile.—"Oh, I'm so glad."
Bartlett, with affected dryness.—"Are you? I didn't know it was such a laughing matter. I was always disposed to take those things seriously."
Constance.—"Yes, yes! But don't you see? It places us on more of an equality." She looks at him with a smile of rapture and logic exquisitely compact.
Bartlett.—"Does it? But you're not half as happy as I am."
Constance.—"Oh yes, I am! Twice."
Bartlett.—"Then that makes us just even, for so am I." They stand ridiculously blest, holding each other's hand a moment, and then Constance, still clinging to one of his hands, goes and rests her other arm upon her mother's shoulder.
Constance.—"Mamma, how wretched I have made you, all these months!"
Mrs. Wyatt.—"If your trouble's over now, my child,"—she tenderly kisses her cheek,—"there's no trouble for your mother in the world."