DR. FREEMANTLE [still more drily]. Very possibly. Most cafe-
chantant singers, I take it, would be--with an English lord. [He
laughs.]

THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. You see, she didn't know he was a lord.

DR. FREEMANTLE. Didn't know--?

THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. No. She married him, thinking him to be
a plain Mr. Wetherell, an artist.

DR. FREEMANTLE. Where d'ye get all that from?

THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. From Vernon himself. You've got his last
letter, dear. [She has opened her chatelaine bag.] Oh, no, I've got
it myself.

THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. He's not going to break it to her till
they reach here this evening.

THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL [she reads]. Yes. "I shall not break it to
her before we reach home. We were married quietly at the Hotel de
Ville, and she has no idea I am anything else than plain Vernon James
Wetherell, a fellow-countryman of her own, and a fellow-artist. The
dear creature has never even inquired whether I am rich or poor." I
like her for that.

DR. FREEMANTLE. You mean to tell me--[He jumps up. With his hands
in his jacket pockets, he walks to and fro.] I suppose it's