re to-day. Nanette, the head-chambermaid here, was
once her lady's-maid. _She's_ known her for more than a fortnight.
Constance is a fine name, but it ain't quite the same as Constancy. Poor
Mr. Nokes! What a mistake it was in him to drive all thoughts of
matrimony off to the last, and then to come to Paris--of all places--to
do it! What a curious thing is sympathy! He met her in the tidal train,
and they were taken ill together on board the steamboat; that's how it
came about. Poor old soul! He deserves a better fate. [_Takes her broom
and leans on it reflectively._] Heigh-ho! His honest English face was
pleasant to look upon in this here outlandish spot; and none has been so
kind to me since my poor missis died and left me under this roof,
without money enough to pay my passage back to England. I was glad
enough to take service here; for why should I go back to a country where
there is not a soul to welcome me? And yet I should like to see dear old
England again, too. [_Tumult without. Mr. Nokes is seen rushing madly up
the court-yard. Tumult in the passage; French and English voices at high
pitch. Nokes without:_ Idiots! Frog-eaters! What is it I want? Nothing!
nothing but to see France sunk in the sea!]

_Enter NOKES (dishevelled and purple with passion, with an open
letter in his hand; bangs the door behind him)._

_Susan._ What is the matter, sir?

_Nokes._ Everything is the matter. You see this lily-white waistcoat;
you see these matrimonial does [_points to his trousers_], these
polished-leather boots, which are at this moment pinching me most
confoundedly, though I don't feel it, because I'm in such a passion:
well, they have been put on for nothing. I've been made a fool of by the
Montmorenci. But if there's justice in heaven,--that is, in Paris,--if
there's law in France, and blighted hopes are compensated in this
country as they are at home, the hussy shall smart for it. Directly I'm
married myself, I'll bring an action against her for breach of promise.

_Susan._ Married yourself, sir?

_Nokes._ Of course I'm going to be married,--at once,
immediately,--within the week. There's only a week left to the end of
the year. Do you suppose--does my nephew Charles suppose--no, for he
knows me better--that I am not going to keep my word? that because the
Montmorenci has played me false at the eleventh hour I am going to
remain a bachelor for seven days longer? Never, Susan, never! [_Walks
hastily up a