in full bloom, all of a sudden like, and he not here to—to—(sobbing)—have one in—in—(sobs)—his buttonhole. (Sits in chair L., at table.)
"I'm blubbering myself now."
Noel (angry).—What childishness! (He sits down beside her, produces a large bandana handkerchief and wipes her eyes.) There (soothing), don't cry any more. Why, bless you, that kind of thing happens every day almost. Somebody you love plants a rosebush, and by and by, when the person who—planted it (faltering) has gone away—it blossoms, maybe—and you pluck a rose—anybody might pluck a rose, you know—it's not a thing to cry about. (Breaks down and cries.) Nonsense! I'm blubbering myself, now. Come, come, Mamzelle Blanche. Take heart—do try. Remember that another terrible disaster threatens us; your mother's health is failing, and I fear if something is not done, grief will kill her.
Blanche.—Oh, Noel! But what can I do?
Noel.—Why, in the first place, you must try to set her a cheerful example.
Blanche.—Well, so I do try. But I can't. (Sobs.) The tears will come and choke me. I do my best to gulp them down, but they won't stay down.
Noel.—Well, now, dry your eyes and go back to your mamma. Try to smile and invent something pleasant to tell her. For instance, just suppose that a nice young man comes all of a sudden to ask your hand in marriage.
Blanche.—A nice young man, did you say?
Noel.—Oh, I didn't refer to Master Lucien.
Blanche (joyous). Monsieur Lucien. Oh, how delightful that is—no, I don't mean that.
Noel.—Never mind your meaning. The smile—the old smile we all loved so well has come back, and I am happy. So will your mamma be, when she sees it, and that is far more important.
Blanche.—Oh, Noel, Noel! You are so good, so kind. You try to give us all fresh courage, and to cheer us up, and I love you dearly—indeed I do. Then you are so tender in taking care of poor dear mamma, and so patient. Oh, I don't say anything, but I see it all, and will never forget it—never. (Noel weeps.) There, now, Mr. Growler, who's crying now, I'd like to know?
Noel.—What do you talk to me in that way for, if I'm not to make an old fool of myself?
Blanche.—I only said you were good and true, did I? I might have added that you are very clever, too—yes, and sly.
Noel.—I?
Blanche.—And in spite of your stupid looks—
Noel.—Have I a stupid look, then?
Blanche.—You fathom mysterious secrets, that nobody knows anything about. You read people's thoughts.
Noel.—Whose thoughts?
Blanche.—If you can't guess, I shall not say another word.
Noel.—But then, I'm so stupid you know—
Blanche.—Oh, not always.
