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].

Susan [holding up her finger]. Constance, if you please, my dear.  I’m continually correcting that little mistake of yours.  How can I possibly keep up my dignity as a Montmorenci while you are always calling me Susan?

Nokes. Then why keep it up at all, my dear?  Why not stand at once upon your merits, which I am sure are quite sufficient?  Of course it would be a little come-down for me just at first; but that’s no matter.

Susan. My good, kind husband! [Kisses his forehead.] No, dear; let me first show your friends that you have no cause to be ashamed of me.  It will be much easier to do that if they think I am a born lady.  Appearances do such a deal in the world.

Nokes. Yes, my dear, I’ve noticed that in the wine-trade.  If you were to sell cider at eighty shillings a dozen, it would be considered uncommon good tipple by the customer who bought it.  Tell them Madeira has been twice to China—­twice to China [chuckles to himself]—­and how they smack their lips!  That reminds me, by the bye [seriously], of another set of appearances,