r [_casting down her eyes_], I was looking to see if it
was leap-year; but it isn't.

_Nokes._ What! You were going to offer to fill the place of the
Montmorenci. You impudent little hussy! [_Aside_] Gad, she's uncommonly
pretty, though. Prettier than the other. I noticed that when she was
sewing on my shirt-button; only I didn't think it right, under the
circumstances, to dwell upon the idea. But there can't be any harm in it
_now_.

_Susan [sobbing]._ I am afraid I have made you angry with me, Mr. Nokes.
I was only in fun, but I see now that it was taking a liberty.

_Nokes [very tenderly and chucking her under the chin]._ We should never
take liberties, Susan. [_Kisses her._] Never. But don't cry, or you'll
make your eyes red; and I rather like your eyes. [_Aside_] I didn't like
to dwell upon the idea before, but she has got remarkably pretty eyes.
It's a dreadful come-down from the Montmorenci, to be sure: still, one
must marry _somebody_--within seven days. But then, again, I've written
such flaming accounts of the other one to all my friends. I've asked
Sponge and Rasper and Robinson to come down, and see us after the
honeymoon at "the Tamarisks," my little place near Dover. And they are
all eager to hear her sing and play, and to see her beautiful sketches
in oil--Can _you_ sing, and play, and sketch in oil, Susan?

_Susan [gravely]._ I don't know, sir; I never tried.

_Nokes [aside]._ Then there's her hands. The Montmorenci's, as I wrote
to Rasper, were like the driven snow; and Susan's--though I didn't like
to dwell upon the idea--are more like snow on the second day, in London.
To be sure she will have nothing to do as Mrs. Nokes except to wash 'em.
Then she can speak French like a native, or at least what will seem to
Robinson and the others like a native. Upon my life, I think I might do
worse. But then, again, she'll have relatives,--awful relatives, whom I
shall have to buy off, or, worse, who will _not_ be bought off. It's
certainly a dreadful come-down. Susan [_hesitatingly_], Susan dear, what
is your name?

_Susan._ Montem, sir; Susan Montem.

_Nokes [aside]._ By Jove! why, that's half-way to Montmorenci. It's not
at all a bad name. But then what's the good of that if she's going to
change it for Nokes? Oh, Montem, is it, Susan? And is your papa--your
father--alive?

_Susan [sorrowfully]._ No, sir.

_Nokes._ That's capital!--I mean I'm _so_ sorry. Poor girl! Your
father's dead, is he? You're