DR. FREEMANTLE. Which, thank God, it isn’t. [_He seats himself in a large easy-chair_. _The two ladies sit side by side on a settee_.] I’ll tell you just exactly what you’ve got to expect. A lady—a few years older than the boy himself, but still young. Exquisite figure; dressed—perhaps a trifle too regardless of expense. Hair—maybe just a shade _too_ golden. All that can be altered. Features—piquant, with expressive eyes, the use of which she probably understands, and an almost permanent smile, displaying an admirably preserved and remarkably even set of teeth. But, above all, clever. That’s our sheet-anchor. The woman’s clever. She will know how to adapt herself to her new position. THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL [_turning to her sister_]. Yes, she must be clever to have obtained the position that she has. [_To the Doctor_] Vernon says that she was quite the chief attraction all this winter, in Paris. THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. And the French public is so critical. DR. FREEMANTLE [_drily_]. Um! I was thinking rather of her cleverness in “landing” poor Vernon. The lad’s not a fool. THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. We must do her justice. I think she was really in love with him. DR. FREEMANTLE [_still more drily_]. Very possibly. Most café-chantant singers, I take it, would be—with an English lord. [_He laughs_.] THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. You see, she didn’t know he was a lord. DR. FREEMANTLE. Didn’t know—? THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. No. She married him, thinking him to be a plain Mr. Wetherell, an artist. DR. FREEMANTLE. Where d’ye get all that from? THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. From Vernon himself. You’ve got his last letter, dear. [_She has opened her chatelaine bag_.] Oh, no, I’ve got it myself. THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. He’s not going to break it to her till they reach here this evening. THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL [_she reads_]. Yes. “I shall not break it to her before we reach home. We were married quietly at the _Hôtel de Ville_, and she has no idea I am anything else than plain Vernon James Wetherell, a fellow-countryman of her own, and a fellow-artist. The dear creature has never even inquired whether I am rich or poor.” I like her for that. DR. FREEMANTLE. You mean to tell me—[_He jumps up_. _With his hands in his jacket pockets_, _he walks to and fro_.] I suppose it’s possible. THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. You see, she isn’t the ordinary class of music-hall singer. DR. FREEMANTLE. I should say not. THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. She comes of quite a good family. THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. Her uncle was a bishop. DR. FREEMANTLE. Bishop? Of where? THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL [_with the letter_]. He says he can’t spell it. It’s somewhere in New Zealand. DR. FREEMANTLE. Do they have bishops over there? THE YOUNGER MISS WETHERELL. Well, evidently. THE ELDER MISS WETHERELL. Then her cousin is a judge. DR. FREEMANTLE. In New Zealand?