Susan [gravely]. I don’t know, sir; I never tried.

Nokes [aside]. Then there’s her hands.  The Montmorenci’s, as I wrote to Rasper, were like the driven snow; and Susan’s—­though I didn’t like to dwell upon the idea—­are more like snow on the second day, in London.  To be sure she will have nothing to do as Mrs. Nokes except to wash ’em.  Then she can speak French like a native, or at least what will seem to Robinson and the others like a native.  Upon my life, I think I might do worse.  But then, again, she’ll have relatives,—­awful relatives, whom I shall have to buy off, or, worse, who will not be bought off.  It’s certainly a dreadful come-down.  Susan [hesitatingly], Susan dear, what is your name?

Susan. Montem, sir; Susan Montem.

Nokes [aside]. By Jove! why, that’s half-way to Montmorenci.  It’s not at all a bad name.  But then what’s the good of that if she’s going to change it for Nokes?  Oh, Montem, is it, Susan?  And is your papa—­your father—­alive?

Susan [sorrowfully]. No, sir.

Nokes. That’s capital!—­I mean I’m so sorry.  Poor girl!  Your father’s dead, is he?  You’re sure he’s dead?

Susan [with her pocket-handkerchief to her eyes]. Quite sure, sir.

Nokes. And your mamma,—­your excellent mamma,—­she’s alive, at all events?

Susan. No, sir; I am an orphan.

Nokes [aside]. How delightful!  I love orphans.  I’m an orphan myself.  Ah, but then she’s sure to have brothers and sisters,—­pipe-smoking, gin-drinking brothers, and sisters who will have married idle mechanics, with executions in their houses every quarter-day.  Susan, my dear, how many brothers and sisters have you?

Susan [sorrowfully]. I have none, sir.  When my dear missis died I was left quite alone in the world.

Nokes. I’m charmed to hear it [embracing her], adorable young woman! [Bell rings without.] What are they pulling that bell about for?  Confound them, it makes me nervous.

Susan [meekly]. I think they’re wanting me, sir:  you see, sir, I’m neglecting my work.

Nokes [kissing her]. No, you’re not, Susan [kisses her again]:  quite the contrary.  So your name’s Montem,—­at present,—­is it?  How came that about?

Susan. Well, sir, I was left a foundling in the parish workhouse, at Salthill, near Eton.  Nobody knew anything about me, and as I made my appearance there one Montem day, the board of guardians named me Montem.

Nokes. And how came you to be chambermaid at this hotel?

Susan [seriously]. It was through good Mr. Woodward, the curate at Salthill, that it happened, sir:  he was my benefactor through life.  Always kind to me at the workhouse, where he was chaplain, he got me a situation, as soon as I was old enough, with a lady.  I lived with her first as housemaid, and then as her personal attendant, till she died under this roof.