[Enter from the grove, lord Hawcastle.  He is a well-preserved man of fifty-six with close-clipped gray mustache and gray hair; his eyes are quick and shrewd; his face shows some slight traces of high living; he carries himself well and his general air is distinguished and high-bred.  He wears a suit of thinly striped white flannel and white shoes, a four-in-hand tie of pale old-rose crape, a Panama hat with broad ribbon striped with white and old-rose of the same shade as his tie.  His accent is that of a man of the world, and quite without affectation.  He comes at once upon his entrance to a chair at the table.]

[Michele enters at same time up left, with a folded newspaper.]

Hawcastle [as he enters].  Good-morning, Mariano!

Mariano [bowing].  Milor’ Hawcastle is serve.

[Takes Hawcastle’s hat and places it upon a stool behind table.]

Michele [hands Hawcastle newspaper from under his arm]. Il Mattino, the morning journal from Napoli, Milor’.

Hawcastle [accepting paper and unfolding it].  No English papers?

Michele.  Milor’, the mail is late.

[Exit up left.]

Hawcastle [sitting].  And Madame de Champigny?

[Mariano serves coffee, etc.]

[As Hawcastle speaks the Comtesse de Champigny enters from hotel.  She is a pretty Frenchwoman of thirty-two.  She wears a fashionable summer Parisian morning dress, light and gay in color, a short-sleeved little Empire jacket, and long gloves.  She carries a parasol.  Her elaborately dressed hair is surmounted by a jaunty Parisian toque.]

Madame de Champigny [lifting her hand gayly as she enters, and striking a little attitude before she descends the steps].  Me voici!

Hawcastle [half rising and bowing].  My esteemed relative is still asleep?

Madame de Champigny [speaking gayly, with a very slight accent, as she crosses to a chair at the table].  I trust your beautiful son has found much better employment—­as our hearts would wish him to.

Hawcastle.  He has.  He’s off on a canter with the little American, thank God!

Madame de Champigny [interjecting the word].  Bravo!

[She turns the hands of her gloves back and sips coffee, Mariano serving.]

Hawcastle [continuing].  But I didn’t mean Almeric.  I meant my august sister-in-law.

[He reads the paper.]

Madame de Champigny [smiling].  The amiable Lady Victoria Hermione
Trevelyan Creech has dejeuner in her apartment.  What you find to read?

Hawcastle.  I’m such a duffer at Italian, but apparently the people along the coast are having a scare over an escaped convict—­a Russian.