MR. W. My love, may I, with all deference, venture to remind you that your respected and beloved parents were, when I first had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, what may be called "no more." MRS. W. Silence, mocker of the dead. They had gone to their reward. But I lived to obey their wishes. MR. W. Oh, and was _I_ one of them? MRS. W. In the abstract, yes. What did I find you? MR. W. My dear, don't allude to that. You did not find me much; but I am not an avaricious man, and as I said at the time, what I looked for in a wife was not so much money as-- MRS. W. Sordid one! Ever thinking of your worldly goods. When I ask, what did I find you? I allude to your moral condition. You were a smoker of tobacco. Do you deny it? MR. W. (_regretfully_). I used to enjoy a cigar. MRS. W. You were a bibber of wine. Was it not so? MR. W. (_regretfully_). A glass of port now and then was very pleasant to me. MRS. W. It was such as _you_ that my parents hated. It was such as _you_ they loved to reform. It is the custom of some to erect to the memory of their parents costly monuments of marble, and gaudy windows of perishable glass. _I_ erected _you_. Say, have I altered you? Do you smoke now? MR. W. (_very mournfully_). I do not. MRS. W. Where is your cellar of port? MR. W. In my cellar. It has remained there, my love, since, twenty years ago, you appropriated the key; and (_with a groan_) it must be in very fine condition. MRS. W. Ay! you can still think of the condition of your port; lucky for you that I have thought of _your_ condition. You are a mausoleum, Mr. Watmuff, of which my parents may feel justly proud. Their tomb will not be neglected during the lifetime of their daughter. My decision with regard to Walter Litherland is one more _immortelle_ woven, by loving hands to their memory. You are a mausoleum, Mr. Watmuff. (_Exit_ MRS. WATMUFF, _door_ L.) MR. W. A mausoleum, am I? I wish they'd put a railing round me then, and keep me isolated. I'm always being railed at. Why, if I'm regarded from that point of view, can't I be railed in? I haven't the privileges of a family vault. I'm only a common grave, walked over and trampled on by everybody. It's too bad. It would be rough enough on a grave, but on flesh and blood it's outrageous. And when I think of that cellar of port, d--d if I don't wish I was buried--with it. How crusty it must be now! As crusty, I expect, as I ought to be if I only dared to show my teeth. (_Enter_ FERDINAND SWIFT, _door_ R.) MR. W. Ferdinand, can I believe my eyes? My dear nephew, I thought you were in America. FER. America twelve days ago--England to-day--this my first call; glad to see you, uncle. MR. W. And I'm glad to see you, my boy. (_They shake hands heartily._) But why have you returned so soon, Ferdinand? I thought you would remain in America until you had made your mark.