Susan. What? you weesh to see mai sketch?  Oh, yas! [Opens the portfolio; the three guests crowd round it.  Nokes comes down to the front.]

Nokes [aside]. I wish they’d take their lunch and go away.  They put me in a profuse perspiration.  I know they’ll find her out.

Robinson [with a sketch-book in his hand]. Beautiful!

Sponge [looking over his shoulder on tiptoe]. Exquisite! most lovely! it’s what I call perfection.

Rasper. First-rate—­only I’ve seen something like it before. [Aside] If I haven’t seen that in some print-shop.  I’ll be hanged. [Blows.]

Susan. Ha! ha! you halve seen eet beefore, Mr.—­Gasper?  Think of that, my husband,—­Mr. Gasper has seen it beefore!

Nokes [laughing uncomfortably]. Ha! ha!  What a funny idea!

Rasper [obstinately]. But I have, though; and in a shop-window, too.

Susan [delightedly]. That is superbe, magnifique!  I am so happy, so proud!  My husband, they have copied this leetle work of mine in London!

[ROBINSON and SPONGE clap their hands applaudingly.]

Rasper [shakes his head; aside]. Dashed if I don’t believe it’s a chromolithograph! [To Nokes] I say, Nokes, you wrote to us in such raptures about your wife’s hands.  Why does she keep her gloves on?

Nokes [confused]. Keep her gloves on?  You mean why does she wear them in-doors?  Well, the fact is, the Montmorencis always do it.  It’s been a family peculiarity for centuries,—­like the Banshee.  And, besides, she does it to keep her hands delicate:  they’re just like roses—­I mean white roses,—­if you could only see ’em.  But then she always wears gloves.

Rasper [grunts disapproval]. Then I suppose it’s no use asking her to give us a tune on the piano?

Nokes [hastily]. Not a bit, not a bit; of course not; and, besides, we shall have lunch directly.

Susan [approaching them]. What is dat, Mr. Gasper?  Did you not ask for a leetle music?  What you like for me to play?

Nokes [aside to Susan]. How can you be such a fool?  Why, this is suicide! [To Rasper] My dear fellow, my wife would be delighted, but the fact is the piano is out of order.  The tuner is coming to-morrow.

Susan [seats herself at the piano]. My dear husband, it weel do very well.  He only said we must note “thomp, thomp” until he had seen it; dat is all.  Now, gentlemens, what would you like?

Sponge [with an armful of music-books]. Nay, madam, what will you do us the favor to choose? [Aside] There is nothing I love so much in this world as turning over the leaves of a music-book for a lady of birth!

Susan. Ah, I am so sorry, because I do only play by de ear, here [points to her ear].  But what would you like, gentlemens?  Handel, Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, it is all exactly de same to me.