BETSY. Exactly, mum; and as there's a way by a passage at the back of the hotel from your room there, (_pointing R._) to this apartment on the other side. (_points to door 2 E. L._) Nothing can be easier than to come out of that door as the Countess, and out of that door as Mrs. Greenfinch, according as your game goes. MRS. G. I understand perfectly--but I see him returning. Let's get away. (_they return into room R._) _Enter GREENFINCH, C., from garden, smoking a cigar._ GREEN. Poo-ah! There's nothing like a cigar for puffing away fear--poo-ah! I feel a deal more composed now--poo-ah!--cooler and more determined--poo-ah! I've been bracing up my courage by repeating that heroic maxim--"The brave man dies many times--a coward never dies at all." Stay--I don't believe I've got it right--but it don't matter. (_stumbles over the trunk_) What's here? umph! a trunk! Bless me! surely I know it: that brown leather is familiar to me. Hah! here's the owner's address on a card. (_drops on his knees to examine it, and reads in a tone of intense alarm_) "Mrs. Greenfinch, Passenger." O--a--ah! That's her writing--and she's here! _Enter MRS. GREENFINCH, R.; GREENFINCH'S head sinks on the trunk._ MRS. G. _Que faites vous ici, mon cher_ Grinfeench? GREEN. Oh! Countess, we're lost. MRS. G. Ha! _perdu!_ Ave de poliss come? GREEN. No, but my wife has. See here! (_reads address on trunk_) "Mrs. Greenfinch, Passenger to Paris." That's her writing after six lessons. (_in a suppressed voice_) I know she's somewhere in the vicinity of this brown leather trunk. MRS. G. (_coolly_) _Eh bien!_ you know that a man can have but one wife at one time. GREEN. The law in its wisdom and great mercy says so. MRS. G. _Justement_--I am it. GREEN. _You?_ Oh, yes, Countess--I beg pardon, Mrs. Greenfinch _pro tempore;_ but as the original Mrs. G. has turned up unexpectedly, what am I to do? MRS. G. (_aside_) Now I'll prove him. Say that you did nevare see her. GREEN. How! disown Mrs. G., and turn my back upon my marriage certificate? (_aside_) She's a Mephistopheles in petticoats. MRS. G. It but want de courage. GREEN. But I've no courage; one look from Mrs. G. would dissolve me into my own wellingtons. MRS. G. If you _tombè_, I sall be close to prop you up. Den stand firm on your _epingles_--your pins; courage--_entendez; ne funkez pas!_ _Exit, R. door, showing pistol._