_Bartlett._--"It does. But I am inexorable,--you must have observed the trait before. In this case I will not yield even to my own colossal self-respect." Earnestly: "Ah, Constance, do you think I could love you the less because your heart was too true to swerve even from a traitor till he was proved as false to honour as to you?" Lightly again: "Come, I like your fidelity to worthless people; I'm rather a deep and darkling villain myself." _Constance_, devoutly.--"You? Oh, you are as nobly frank and open as--as--as papa!" _Bartlett._--"No, Constance, you are wrong, for once. Hear my dreadful secret; I'm not what I seem,--the light and joyous creature I look,--I'm an emotional wreck. Three short years ago, I was frightfully jilted"--they all turn upon him in surprise--"by a young person who, I'm sorry to say, hasn't yet consoled me by turning out a scamp." _Constance_, drifting to his side with a radiant smile.--"Oh, I'm _so_ glad." _Bartlett_, with affected dryness.--"Are you? I didn't know it was such a laughing matter. I was always disposed to take those things seriously." _Constance._--"Yes, yes! But don't you see? It places us on more of an equality." She looks at him with a smile of rapture and logic exquisitely compact. _Bartlett._--"Does it? But you're not half as happy as I am." _Constance._--"Oh yes, I am! Twice." _Bartlett._--"Then that makes us just even, for so am I." They stand ridiculously blest, holding each other's hand a moment, and then Constance, still clinging to one of his hands, goes and rests her other arm upon her mother's shoulder. _Constance._--"Mamma, how wretched I have made you, all these months!" _Mrs. Wyatt._--"If your trouble's over now, my child,"--she tenderly kisses her cheek,--"there's no trouble for your mother in the world." _Constance._--"But I'm not happy, mamma. I can't be happy, thinking how wickedly unhappy I've been. No, no! I had better go back to the old wretched state again; it's all I'm fit for. I'm _so_ ashamed of myself. Send him away!" She renews her hold upon his hand. _Bartlett._--"Nothing of the kind. I was requested to remain here six weeks ago, by a young lady. Besides, this is a public house. Come, I haven't finished the catalogue of my disagreeable qualities yet. I'm jealous. I want you to put that arm on _my_ shoulder." He gently effects the desired transfer, and then, chancing to look up, he discovers the Rev. Arthur Cummings on the threshold in the act of modestly retreating. He detains him with a great melodramatic start. "Hah! A clergyman! This is indeed ominous!" THE PARLOUR CAR. A FARCE. THE PARLOUR CAR. A FARCE.