_], of
another set of appearances, Susan, which we have to guard against,--the
pretence and show of poverty. You must learn to steel your heart against
_that_, my dear. There's that nephew of mine been writing one of his
persistent and appealing letters again. He adjures me to have pity, if
not upon him, at all events upon his innocent Clara. But she ought not
to have been his innocent Clara, and so I've told him. She ought not to
have been his Clara at all. Now, do you remember your solemn promise to
me about that young man?

_Susan [sighing]._ Yes, sir, I remember.

_Nokes [angrily]._ Why do you call me "sir," Susan?

_Susan._ Because when you look so stern and talk so severely you don't
seem to be the same good, kind-hearted husband that I know you are. I'll
keep my promise, sir, not to hold out my hand to your unfortunate
nephew, but please don't let us talk about it. It makes me feel less
reverence, less respect, and even less gratitude, sir,--it does,
indeed,--since your very generosity toward me has made me the instrument
of punishment, and--as I feel--of wrong. I have been poor myself, and
what must that young couple think of my never answering their touching
letter, put in my hands as I first crossed this threshold?

_Nokes [testily]._ Touching letter, indeed! Any begging-letter impostor
would have written as good a one. It's all humbug, Susan. Mrs. Charles
would like to see you whipped, if I know women. And as for my
nephew--[_Noises of wheels heard, and bell rings._] But there's the
front-door bell. Here are our visitors from town. Had you not better
leave the room for a minute or two, to wash those tears away? It would
never do, you know, to exhibit a Montmorenci with red eyes. [_Exit
SUSAN._]

_Nokes [solus]._ That's the only matter about which my dear Susan and I
are ever likely to fall out,--the extending what she calls the hand of
forgiveness to Charles and his wife, just because they've got a baby.
I'll never do it if they have twelve. I said to myself I wouldn't when
he wrote to me about this marriage, and I always keep my word.

_Enter SPONGE, RASPER, and ROBINSON._

_Nokes [shaking hands with all]._ Welcome, my friends, welcome to the
Tamarisks.

_Robinson._ Thank ye, Nokes, thank ye. But how changed we are at the
Tamarisks! [_Pointing to the piano and portfolio._] I mean how changed
we are for the better! ain't we, Sponge? ain't we, Rasper?

_Sponge [fawningly]._ It was always a char