[Throws his cigar disgustedly into one of the coffee-cups on the table.]

Madame de Champigny [eagerly].  Is that all you have to tell us?

ALMERIC.  Oh no!  She accepted me.

[HAWCASTLE drops into a chair with a long breath of relief.]

MADAME DE CHAMPIGNY [waving her parasol].  Enfin!  Bravo!  And will she let it be soon?

ALMERIC [sincerely].  I dare say there’ll be no row about that; I’ve made her aw’fly happy.

HAWCASTLE.  On my soul, I believe you’re right—­and thank God you are!

[Rises as he speaks and walks up centre.  Breaks off short as he sees HORACE.]

[Illustration:  “OH NO!  SHE ACCEPTED ME”]

Here’s the brother—­attention now!

[HORACE enters the hotel.  He is a boyish-looking American of twenty-two, smooth-shaven.  He wears white flannels, the coat double-breasted and buttoned, the tie is light blue “puffing” fastened with a large pearl.  He wears light-yellow chamois gloves, white shoes, a small, stiff English straw hat with blue-and-white ribbon.  When he speaks it is with a strong “English accent,” which he sometimes forgets.  At present he is flushed and almost overcome with happy emotion.  As he comes down the steps MADAME DE CHAMPIGNY rushes toward him, taking both his hands.]

MADAME DE CHAMPIGNY [excitedly].  Ah, my dear Horace Granger-Simpson!  Has your sister told you?

HORACE [radiant, but almost tearful].  She has, indeed.  I assure you I’m quite overcome.

[MADAME DE CHAMPIGNY, dropping his hands, laughs deprecatingly, and steps back from him.]

Really, I assure you.

HAWCASTLE [shaking hands with him very heartily].  My dear young friend, not at all, not at all.

HORACE [fanning himself with his hat and wiping his brow].  I assure you I am, I assure you I am—­it’s quite overpowering—­isn’t it?

MADAME DE CHAMPIGNY.  Ah, poor Monsieur Horace!

ALMERIC.  I say, don’t take it that way, you know.  She’s very happy.

HORACE [crossing and grasping his hand].  She’s worthy of it—­she’s worthy of it.  I know she is.  And when will it be?

MADAME DE CHAMPIGNY.  Enchanting.

HAWCASTLE.  Oh, the date?  I dare say within a year—­two years—­

[COMTESSE starts to exclaim, but HAWCASTLE checks her.]

HORACE.  Oh, but I say, you know!  Isn’t that putting it jolly far off? 
The thing’s settled, isn’t it?  Why not say a month instead of a year?

HAWCASTLE.  Oh, if you like, I don’t know that there is any real objection.

HORACE.  I do like, indeed.  Why not let them marry here in Italy?

HAWCASTLE.  Ah, the dashing methods of you Americans!  Next you’ll be saying, “Why not here at Sorrento?”

HORACE.  Well, and why not, indeed?

HAWCASTLE.  And then it will be, “Why not within a fortnight?”