Of course, all the readers of PUNCH know Mr. Keeley.  Let them, then, conceive him an uncle at five-and-thirty, but docking himself of six years’ age when asked impertinent questions.  He has a head of fine auburn hair, and dresses in a style that a badaud would call “quiet;” that is to say, he wears brass buttons to his coat, which is green, and adorned with a velvet collar.  In short, it is not nearly so fine as Lord Palmerston’s, for it has no velvet at the cuffs; and is not embroidered.  Add white unhintables, and you have an imaginative portrait of the hero.  But the heroine!  Ah! she, dear reader, if you have a taste for full-blown beauty and widows, she will coax the coin out of your pockets, and yourselves into the English Opera House, when we have told you what she acts, and how she acts.  Imagine her, the syren, with the quiet, confiding smile, the tender melting voice, the pleasing highly-bred manner; just picture her in the character of a Parisian widow—­the free, unshackled, fascinating Parisian widow—­the child of liberty—­the mother of—­no, not a mother; for the instant a husband dies, the orphans are transferred to convent schools to become nephews and nieces.  Well, we say for the third time, conceive Mrs. Waylett, dressed with modest elegance, a single rose in her hair—­sympathise with her as she rushes upon the stage (which is “set” for the chambre meublee of a country inn), escaping from the persecutions of a persevering traveller who will follow her charms, her modest elegance, her single rose, wherever they make their appearance.  She locks the door, and orders supper, declaring she will leave the house immediately after it is eaten and paid for.  Alas! the danger increases, and with it her fears; she will pay without eating; and as the diligence is going off, she will resume her journey, but—­a new misfortune—­there is no place in it!  She will, then, hire a postchaise; and the landlady goes to strike the bargain, having been duly paid for a bed which has not been lain in, and a supper that has not been eaten.  As the lady hastens away, with every prospect of not returning, the piece would inevitably end here, if a gentleman did not arrive by the very diligence which has just driven off full, and taken the same chamber the lady has just vacated; but more particularly if the only chaise in the place had not been hired by the lady’s wicked persecutor on purpose to detain her.  She, of course, returns to the twice-let chamber, and finds it occupied by a sentimental traveller.

Here we have the “peculiarly perplexing predicament”—­a lady and gentleman, and only one chamber between them!  This is the plot; all that happens afterwards is merely supplementary.  To avoid the continued persecutions of the unseen Adolphe, the lady agrees, after some becoming hesitation, to pass to the hostess as the wife of the sentimental traveller.  The landlady is satisfied, for what so natural as that they should have but one bed-room between them? so she carefully locks them in, and the audience have the pleasure of seeing them pass the night together—­how we will not say—­let our readers go and see.  Yet we must in justice add that the “lady and gentleman” make at the end of the piece the amende good morals demand—­they get married.