Susan, which we have to guard against,—­the pretence and show of poverty.  You must learn to steel your heart against that, my dear.  There’s that nephew of mine been writing one of his persistent and appealing letters again.  He adjures me to have pity, if not upon him, at all events upon his innocent Clara.  But she ought not to have been his innocent Clara, and so I’ve told him.  She ought not to have been his Clara at all.  Now, do you remember your solemn promise to me about that young man?

Susan [sighing]. Yes, sir, I remember.

Nokes [angrily]. Why do you call me “sir,” Susan?

Susan. Because when you look so stern and talk so severely you don’t seem to be the same good, kind-hearted husband that I know you are.  I’ll keep my promise, sir, not to hold out my hand to your unfortunate nephew, but please don’t let us talk about it.  It makes me feel less reverence, less respect, and even less gratitude, sir,—­it does, indeed,—­since your very generosity toward me has made me the instrument of punishment, and—­as I feel—­of wrong.  I have been poor myself, and what must that young couple think of my never answering their touching letter, put in my hands as I first crossed this threshold?

Nokes [testily]. Touching letter, indeed!  Any begging-letter impostor would have written as good a one.  It’s all humbug, Susan.  Mrs. Charles would like to see you whipped, if I know women.  And as for my nephew—­[Noises of wheels heard, and bell rings.] But there’s the front-door bell.  Here are our visitors from town.  Had you not better leave the room for a minute or two, to wash those tears away?  It would never do, you know, to exhibit a Montmorenci with red eyes. [Exit SUSAN.]

Nokes [solus]. That’s the only matter about which my dear Susan and I are ever likely to fall out,—­the extending what she calls the hand of forgiveness to Charles and his wife, just because they’ve got a baby.  I’ll never do it if they have twelve.  I said to myself I wouldn’t when he wrote to me about this marriage, and I always keep my word.

     Enter SPONGE, RASPER, and ROBINSON.

Nokes [shaking hands with all]. Welcome, my friends, welcome to the Tamarisks.

Robinson. Thank ye, Nokes, thank ye.  But how changed we are at the Tamarisks! [Pointing to the piano and portfolio.] I mean how changed we are for the better! ain’t we, Sponge? ain’t we, Rasper?

Sponge [fawningly]. It was always a charming retreat, but we now see everywhere, in addition to its former beauties, the magical influence of a female hand.

Rasper [vulgarly]. Yes; no doubt of that.  Directly I saw the new coach-house, I said, “By Jove, that’s Mrs. N——­’s doing! She’ll spend his money for him, will Mrs. N——.”

Nokes [annoyed]. You were very good, I’m sure.

Sponge. But it is here, within-doors, my dear Nokes, that the great transformation-scene has been effected.  Pianos, harpsichords, sketch-books,—­these all bespeak the presence of lovely and accomplished woman.