Susan. How so, sir?

Nokes. Why, it seems she loves somebody else better.  Her brother tells me—­confound his impudence!—­that this is only natural.  At the same time, he allows I have some cause to complain, and therefore offers me the opportunity of a personal combat with what he is pleased to call the peculiar weapon of my countrymen, the pistol.  Now, I should have said the peculiar weapon of my country was the umbrella.  That is certainly the instrument I should choose if I were compelled to engage in mortal strife.  But the idea of being shot in the liver in reparation for one’s matrimonial injuries!  To be laid up in that way when there is only a week left in which to woo and win another Mrs. Nokes!  But what am I to do now?  How am I to find a respectable young woman to take me at so short a notice?

Susan. There isn’t many of that sort in Paris, sir, even if you gave ’em longer.

Nokes. Just so.  Come, you’re a sensible, good girl, and have helped me out of several difficulties; now, do you think you can help me out of this one?

Susan [demurely]. Have you got an almanac about you, sir?

Nokes. An almanac?  Of course I have.  I have given up the wine-trade, but I have not given up the habit so essential to business-men of carrying an almanac in my breast-pocket.  Here it is.

Susan [takes almanac and looks through it attentively]. No, sir [sighs], it won’t do.

Nokes. What won’t do?  What did you expect to find that would do—­in an almanac—­in such a crisis as this?

Susan. Well, sir [casting down her eyes], I was looking to see if it was leap-year; but it isn’t.

Nokes. What!  You were going to offer to fill the place of the Montmorenci.  You impudent little hussy! [Aside] Gad, she’s uncommonly pretty, though.  Prettier than the other.  I noticed that when she was sewing on my shirt-button; only I didn’t think it right, under the circumstances, to dwell upon the idea.  But there can’t be any harm in it now.

Susan [sobbing]. I am afraid I have made you angry with me, Mr. Nokes.  I was only in fun, but I see now that it was taking a liberty.

Nokes [very tenderly and chucking her under the chin]. We should never take liberties, Susan. [Kisses her.] Never.  But don’t cry, or you’ll make your eyes red; and I rather like your eyes. [Aside] I didn’t like to dwell upon the idea before, but she has got remarkably pretty eyes.  It’s a dreadful come-down from the Montmorenci, to be sure:  still, one must marry somebody—­within seven days.  But then, again, I’ve written such flaming accounts of the other one to all my friends.  I’ve asked Sponge and Rasper and Robinson to come down, and see us after the honeymoon at “the Tamarisks,” my little place near Dover.  And they are all eager to hear her sing and play, and to see her beautiful sketches in oil—­Can you sing, and play, and sketch in oil, Susan?