Chapter II: Part 2

I hope I haven't taken too great a liberty--

LADY OWBRIDGE.

[_Looking round._] I don't see him.

SOPHY.

He has run back to the station. I've just found out I left my bag in the fly that brought us here. So stupid of me!

LADY OWBRIDGE.

Mrs. Gregory will give you, both, dinner.

SOPHY.

Thank you, my lady.

[_The_ DUCHESS _is now seated in the garden-chair. The younger of the two servants enters, carrying_ SOPHY'S _bag and the evening papers._

SERVANT.

[_Handing the bag to_ SOPHY.] The cabman has brought your bag back, miss.

SOPHY.

There now! Much obliged. [_To_ MRS. EDEN.] Poor Mr. Valma will have his tramp for nothing, won't he?

[SOPHY _and_ MRS. EDEN _talk together._

LADY OWBRIDGE.

The evening papers, Morgan?

SERVANT.

[_Who has laid the papers upon the table._] Yes, my lady.

[_The_ SERVANT _retires._

LADY OWBRIDGE.

So late? we must go in and dress.

DUCHESS.

[_Who has been occupied in observing_ QUEX.] I'll follow you, dear Lady Owbridge.

[LADY OWBRIDGE _moves away and is joined by_ MRS. EDEN.

MRS. EDEN.

[_As she ascends the steps with_ LADY OWBRIDGE.] Sophy, I shall be ready for you in a quarter of an hour.

SOPHY.

All right, Mrs. Eden.

[LADY OWBRIDGE _and_ MRS. EDEN _disappear._

MURIEL.

[_Crossing to_ SOPHY.] Wouldn't you like to walk to the gates to meet Mr. Valma?

SOPHY.

Thanks, dear, I think I would.

MURIEL.

I can show you a nearer way than by going back to the house. [_Pointing into the distance._] Follow this hedge and take the second alley--not the first--on your left. When you reach the big fountain--

[QUEX, _still dipping into the sermons, has come down to the back of the table. He now throws the book upon the table and picks up a newspaper._

QUEX.

I beg your pardon, Duchess--I didn't see you.

DUCHESS.

[_In a whisper._] Harry--

QUEX.

[_Startled._] Eh?

DUCHESS.

I will hurry into my gown and return. Be here in a quarter of an hour.

QUEX.

May I ask--the reason?

DUCHESS.

[_A newspaper in her hand--talking to him, in undertones, over the top of it._] For a week, only the merest commonplaces have passed between us. I must relieve my heart; it is bursting!

QUEX.

I entreat you to consider my position.

DUCHESS.

Yours! have _I_ no reputation to endanger? [_Rising--laying the paper aside._] What a pitiably small request! you will grant it?

QUEX.

If you could see your way to excuse me--

DUCHESS.

In memory of the past--! I demand it!

QUEX.

[_With a stiff bow._] Oh--oh, certainly.

DUCHESS.

[_Leaving him._] Thank you.

QUEX.

[_To himself._] Damn!

[_He turns on his heel and walks away._

DUCHESS.

[_Joining_ MURIEL.] You are coming to dress?

MURIEL.

[_After smiling assent, presenting_ SOPHY.] Miss Fullgarney was my first playmate, Duchess.

DUCHESS.

[_Looking upon_ SOPHY _graciously._] Ah? [_To_ MURIEL.] The souvenirs of childhood are sweet, are they not?

[_She slips her arm through_ MURIEL'S, _and they ascend the steps and go away together._ SOPHY _comes to the stone bench on the left, upon which she deposits her bag. She opens the bag, produces a little mirror and a comb, and puts her "fringe" in order--humming as she does so an air from the latest comic opera. Then she returns the comb and mirror to the bag and--bag in hand--prepares to depart. While this is going on_ QUEX _returns, above the low hedge. He ascends the steps and looks off into the distance, watching the retreating figure of the_ DUCHESS. _After a moment or two he shrugs his shoulders in a perplexed, troubled way, and, coming down the steps, encounters_ SOPHY.

SOPHY.

[_Innocently._] Lovely evening, my lord.

QUEX.

[_Passing her, with a nod and a smile._] Very--very.

[_At the table, he exchanges the newspaper he carries for another. She is going in the direction indicated by_ MURIEL. _Suddenly she pauses, above the dwarf cypress-hedge, and stands looking at_ QUEX _with an expression in which fear and determination are mingled. Having selected his newspaper,_ QUEX _crosses to the left and sits, reading._

SOPHY.

[_Coming to him._] I don't think I shall go, after all.

QUEX.

[_Lowering his paper._] Eh?

SOPHY.

I was just starting off down to the gates, you know, to meet Mr. Valma.

QUEX.

[_With amiable indifference._] Oh?

SOPHY.

[_Her head upon one side, smiling._] But it's too hot for walking, isn't it?

QUEX.

[_Resuming his reading._] It is warm.

SOPHY.

[_Putting her bag upon the table and removing her gloves._] Phew!

[_She eyes him askance, undecided, as to a plan of action. He lowers his paper again, disconcerting her._

QUEX.

You don't feel you _ought_ to go and meet your--Mr. Valma?

SOPHY.

[_Edging towards him._] I might miss him--mightn't I?

QUEX.

Certainly--you might.

SOPHY.

Besides, it wouldn't do for me to attend upon Mrs. Jack--Mrs. Eden--all puffing and towzelled; [_archly_] now, would it?

QUEX.

[_Resuming his reading._] You're the best judge.

SOPHY.

So I've a quarter of an hour to fill in somehow. [_A pause._] I've a quarter of an hour to fill in somehow.

QUEX.

[_Behind his paper, beginning to be extremely bored._] Indeed?

SOPHY.

[_Quaking._] I--I wish there were some quiet little shady places to ramble about in, here at Fauncey Court.

QUEX.

There are several.

SOPHY.

Are there?... are there?

QUEX.

[_Turning his paper._] Oh, yes, a great many.

SOPHY.

You see, I'm a stranger--

QUEX.

[_Kindly._] Well, you run along; you'll find 'em. [_She walks away slowly, baffled. He glances at her over his paper, slightly puzzled._] Have you seen the grotto?

SOPHY.

[_Turning sharply._] No.

QUEX.

[_Pointing towards the right._] It's in that direction.

SOPHY.

Grotto? Dark, I suppose, and lonelyish?

QUEX.

You said you desired shade and quiet.

SOPHY.

Yes, but not darkness. Fancy me in a grotto all by myself ... by myself...!

QUEX.

[_Behind his paper again._] I'm afraid I have no further suggestion to offer.

[_There is another pause; then her face lights up, and she comes down to him swiftly._

SOPHY.

[_Close to him._] Show me your nails, my lord.

QUEX.

[_Lowering his paper._] My nails?

SOPHY.

[_Taking his hand and examining it._] Excuse me. Oh, my lord, for shame!

QUEX.

You take exception to them?

SOPHY.

This is hacking, not cutting. You ought never to be allowed within a mile of a pair of scissors.

QUEX.

[_Looking at his other hand._] Oh, come! they're hardly as bad as all that.

SOPHY

[_Examining that hand also._] Ha, ha, ha!

QUEX.

[_Rising, somewhat abashed._] Ha! I confess I am a little unskilful at such operations.

SOPHY.

No gentleman should trust to himself where his nails are concerned. Why, a man's hand has lost him a young lady's affections before this! I've heard of heaps of cases where matches have been broken off--

QUEX.

[_Putting his hands behind him, smiling._] Really? the results of manicure are more far-reaching than I had imagined.

SOPHY.

You, see, my lord, when a man's courting he is free to look his young lady in the face for as long as he chooses; it's considered proper and attentive. But the girl is expected to drop _her_ eyes, and then--what has _she_ to look at? Why, a well-trimmed hand or an ugly one. [_Taking off her rings._] Now then, I'll do wonders for you in ten minutes.

QUEX.

Thank you; I am not going indoors just yet.

SOPHY.

No need to go indoors. [_Depositing her rings upon the table and opening her bag._] I've got my bag here, with all my tools--see!

QUEX.

Ah, but I won't trouble you this evening. Another occasion--

SOPHY.

[_Arranging her manicure instruments, &c., upon the table._] No trouble at all, my lord--quite an honour. [_Indicating the stone bench._] Please sit down there. [_Producing a little brass bowl._] Water--?

[_She runs to the fountain and fills her bowl from its basin._

QUEX.

[_Crossing, hesitatingly, to the right--looking at his nails and speaking in a formal manner._] You have been bidden to Fauncey Court for rest and relaxation, Miss Fullgarney; it is most obliging of you to allow your pleasure to be disturbed in this way.

SOPHY.

[_Returning to him._] Oh, don't say that, my lord. [_Putting the bowl on the table and dragging the garden-chair forward to face him._] Business _is_ a pleasure, sometimes.

[_Her close proximity to him forces him back upon the bench._

QUEX.

[_Seated--stiffly._] You must, at least, let me open an account at your excellent establishment.

SOPHY.

Not I. [_Seated--taking his right hand._] One may work occasionally for love, I should hope? [_archly_] ha, ha! just for love, eh?

QUEX

[_Uncomfortably._] No, no, I couldn't permit it--I couldn't permit it.

SOPHY.

[_Holding his hand almost caressingly._] Well, well! we'll see--we'll see. [_She clips his nails briskly and methodically. While she does so she again hums a song, looking up at him at intervals enticingly, under her lashes. Breaking off in her song._] My goodness! what a smooth, young hand you have!

QUEX.

[_His discomfort increasing._] Er--indeed?

SOPHY.

Many a man of six-and-twenty would be glad to own such hands, I can tell you. [_Patting his hand reprovingly._] Keep still! [_It is now his turn to hum a song, which he does, under his breath, to disguise his embarrassment. She looks up at him._] But then, you're an awfully young man for your age, in every way, aren't you?

QUEX.

[_Gazing at the sky._] Oh, I don't know about that.

SOPHY.

[_Slyly._] You _do_ know. [_Wagging her head at him._] You _do_ know.

QUEX.

[_Relaxing slightly._] It may be so, of course, without one's being conscious of it.

SOPHY.

_May_ be so! ah, ha! not conscious of it! ho! [_Slapping his hand again, soundly._] Artful!

QUEX.

[_Flattered and amused._] No, no, I assure you! ha, ha!

[_They laugh together. His constraint gradually diminishes. After shaking some liquid soap from a bottle into the bowl, she places the bowl beside him on the bench._

SOPHY.

[_While doing this._] My young ladies at a-hundred-and-eighty-five all agree with me about you.

QUEX.

Do they?

SOPHY.

Yes, do they!

QUEX.

Your young ladies?

SOPHY.

My girls.

QUEX.

Ha, ha, ha! And what terrible pronouncement has a-hundred-and-eighty-five to pass upon me?

SOPHY.

Seven-and-thirty, _you_ look--not a day older; that's what _we_ say. There, dip your fingers in that, do!

QUEX.

Into this?

SOPHY.

[_Thrusting his fingers into the bowl._] Baby! [_The water splashes over her dress and his coat._] Oh!

QUEX.

I beg your pardon.

SOPHY.

Now what have you done? [_Wiping the water from his coat._] You clumsy boy!

QUEX.

Thanks, thanks.

[_She commences operations upon his left hand. He is now thoroughly entertained by her freedom and audacity._

SOPHY.

Ha, ha! do you know what _I_ maintain?

QUEX.

[_Laughing._] Upon my word, I dread to think.

SOPHY.

Why, that every man who looks younger than his years should be watched by the police.

QUEX.

Good heavens, Sophy--Miss Fullgarney!

SOPHY.

Yes--as a dangerous person.

QUEX.

Dangerous! ho, come!

SOPHY.

[_With the suggestion of a wink._] Dangerous. The man who is younger than he ought to be is always no better than he should be.

QUEX.

Ha, ha, ha!

SOPHY.

Am I right? am I right, eh? [_Putting her cheek near his lips--speaking in a low voice, breathlessly, her eyes averted._] Tell me whether I'm right, my lord.

[_For the first time, a suspicion of her designs crosses his mind. He draws back slowly, eyeing her. There is a pause._

QUEX.

[_In an altered tone, but keeping her in play._] Ha, ha, ha, ha! [_Looking at his watch._] I--I am afraid I shall have to run away to dress for dinner very soon.

SOPHY.

[_Resuming her work, disappointed._] Not yet; you've plenty of time. But there, dangerous or not dangerous, in my heart I can't help holding with what my lady-customers are continually saying.

QUEX.

[_Watching her keenly._] No? and what are your lady-customers continually saying?

SOPHY.

Why, that the young fellows of the day are such conceited, apish creatures; no man under forty-five is worth wasting a minute's time over.

QUEX.

Ho! they say that, your lady-customers?

SOPHY.

Yes; and they're good judges, they are.

QUEX.

Good judges! none better--none better.

SOPHY.

[_Laying her clipper aside suddenly, and putting her hand to her eyes with a cry of pain._] Oh!

QUEX.

[_Coolly._] What's the matter?

SOPHY.

[_Rising._] A little splinter has flown into my eye It often happens.

QUEX.

[_Rising._] Extremely painful, I expect?

SOPHY.

[_Producing her handkerchief._] Very. [_Giving him her handkerchief._] Do you think you could find it?

QUEX.

Certainly, if it's to be found.

SOPHY.

[_Holding the lapels of his coat, her head almost upon his shoulder, her eyes closed._] Ah! please make haste and look for it!

QUEX.

Right or left?

SOPHY.

The ri--the left.

QUEX.

[_Sharply._] Raise your head. Stand up.

SOPHY.

[_Releasing his coat and raising her head._] Eh?

QUEX.

[_Sternly._] Open your eyes. Both of them. [_She opens her eyes and stares at him. He returns her handkerchief._] There! I have removed the splinter. [_She slowly backs away like a whipped child. He follows her._] Miss Fullgarney, I understand you are engaged to be married--to this young man, Valma?

SOPHY.

[_Tremblingly._] Yes, my lord.

QUEX.

Do you care for him?

SOPHY.

[_Faintly._] Yes.

QUEX.

In love with him?

SOPHY.

Oh, yes, my lord, indeed.

QUEX.

And yet you still flirt?

SOPHY.

Y--es.

QUEX.

Take my advice--be satisfied with the kisses your sweetheart gives you. Don't try to get them from other men, old or young.

SOPHY.

No--no--

QUEX.

[_Sternly, but kindly._] You little fool!

POLLITT _enters, wearing a tall hat and lemon-coloured gloves._

POLLITT.

[_Jealously._] Sophy!

[QUEX _walks away._

SOPHY.

[_Falteringly._] The fly-man brought back the bag, Valma dear.

POLLITT.

I am aware of that. [_Lowering his voice._] What are you doing here with Lord Quex?

SOPHY.

I--I've been manicuring him.

_The_ YOUNGER SERVANT _comes down the steps._

SERVANT.

[_To_ SOPHY.] Mrs. Eden is quite ready for you, miss.

[_She hurriedly replaces her manicure instruments, &c., in the bag, hands the bowl to the_ SERVANT, _and, without looking at_ POLLITT _or_ QUEX, _goes swiftly up the steps and disappears. The_ SERVANT _follows her, carrying the bowl._

POLLITT.

[_To_ QUEX.] Excuse me, my lord--

QUEX.

[_Coming forward, and picking up his newspaper._] Eh?

POLLITT.

That young lady and I are engaged to be married.

QUEX.

Mr.--Valma?

POLLITT.

Yes, my lord. [_Hotly._] And I very much object to her manicuring gentlemen.

QUEX.

[_Dryly._] Well, there you have a little something to discuss at home--before, and, perhaps, after marriage.

POLLITT.

I consider the custom of ladies manicuring gentlemen one that may occasionally lead to undue familiarity, my lord.

QUEX.

I am inclined to agree with you, sir.

POLLITT.

And I shall do all I can to persuade Miss Fullgarney to relinquish active participation in the business.

QUEX.

The palmistry profession is a flourishing one at present, eh, Mr. Valma?

POLLITT.

[_Loftily._] My engagement-book is always full. I have disappointed several ladies by coming here this afternoon.

QUEX.

Poor women! Nevertheless, pray be careful how you slight the manicure trade. Crazes die, you know--nails grow.

POLLITT.

[_Tapping his breast._] I think _we_ have come to stay, my lord.

QUEX.

[_Lightly._] Well, you're sailing pretty close to the wind, remember, you fellows.

POLLITT.

My lord!

QUEX.

[_Replacing his newspaper upon the table._] And if some day you should find yourselves in the police-court, alongside a poor old woman whose hand has been crossed with a threepenny-bit down an area--

_The_ DUCHESS _appears on the further side of the low cypress-hedge. She is dressed for dinner. The sky is now faintly rosy, and during the ensuing scene it deepens into a rich sunset._

QUEX.

We are going to have a flaming sunset, Duchess.

DUCHESS.

Superb.

POLLITT.

[_Haughtily._] I wish you good evening, my lord.

QUEX.

Oh, good evening, Mr. Valma. [_To himself._] Impudent beggar!

[POLLITT _walks away. After watching his going, the_ DUCHESS _comes eagerly forward._

DUCHESS.

[_Her hand upon her heart._] Oh! I am here, Harry!

QUEX.

[_In delicate protest._] Ah, my dear Duchess!

DUCHESS.

Fortunately I have been able to dress quickly without exciting curiosity. My maid was summoned away this afternoon, to her father who is sick. [_Sinking on to the bench._] Still, these risks are considerable enough.

QUEX.

And yet you deliberately court them!

DUCHESS.

Great passions involve great dangers. The history of the world shows that.

QUEX.

But why now--now that circumstances are altered between us? why, on earth, do you play these hazardous tricks now?

DUCHESS.

I was determined to meet, to know, the girl with whom you are about to _ranger_ yourself, Harry.

QUEX.

Even that could have been arrived at in some safer way.

DUCHESS.

Ah, but you fail to see; it was the daring of this proceeding that attracted me--the romance of it!

QUEX.

[_Raising his hands._] Romance! still!

DUCHESS.

Always. It is the very blood in my veins. It keeps me young. I shall die a romantic girl, however old I may be.

QUEX.

You ought, you really ought, to have flourished in the Middle Ages.

DUCHESS.

You have frequently made that observation. [_Rising._] I do live in the Middle Ages, in my imagination. I live in every age in which Love was not a cool, level emotion, but a fierce, all-conquering flame--a flame that grew in the heart of a woman, that of a sudden spread through her whole organism, that lit up her eyes with a light more refulgent than the light of sun or moon! [_Laying her hand upon his arm._] Oh, oh, this poor, thin, modern sentiment miscalled Love--!

QUEX.

[_Edging away._] Sssh! pray be careful!

DUCHESS.

Ah, yes. But, dear Harry, I cannot endure the ordeal any longer.

QUEX.

The ordeal?

DUCHESS.

The prolonged discomfort, to which I have subjected myself, of watching your wooing of Miss Eden. I must go.

QUEX.

[_With ill-concealed relief._] Go! leave us?

DUCHESS.

I recognise how fitting it is that you should bring your wild, irregular career to a close; but after to-morrow I shall cease to be a spectator of these preliminaries.

QUEX.

[_His eyes sparkling._] After to-morrow!

DUCHESS.

Yes, I rejoin poor dear Strood on Friday. True, he has four nurses--he always had four nurses, if you remember?

QUEX.

[_Sympathetically._] Three or four.

DUCHESS.

But then, nurses are but nurses. [_Nobly._] I must not forget that I am a wife, Harry.

QUEX.

No, no--you mustn't forget that.

DUCHESS.

[_Gazing into his eyes._] And so, between you and me, [_placing her hands upon his shoulders_] it is over.

QUEX.

[_Promptly._] Over.

DUCHESS.

Finally, irrevocably over.

QUEX.

[_Freeing himself._] Absolutely over. [_Taking her hand and bowing over it solemnly._] Done with.

[_He walks away._

DUCHESS.

[_Moving slowly._] That is--almost over.

QUEX.

[_Turning sharply._] Almost?

DUCHESS.

We have yet to say good-bye, you know.

QUEX.

[_Returning to her, apprehensively._] We--we have said good-bye.

DUCHESS.

Ah, no, no!

QUEX.

[_Again bowing over her hand--with simulated feeling._] Good-bye.

DUCHESS.

[_Looking round._] What! _here_?

QUEX.

[_Humouring her._] This romantic old garden! [_pointing to the statuary_] these silent witnesses--beholders, it is likely, of many similar scenes! the--the--setting sun! Could any situation be more appropriate?

DUCHESS.

But we are liable to be interrupted at any moment. The joint romance of our lives, Harry, ought not to end with a curt word and formal hand-shake in an exposed spot of this kind. [_Sitting in the garden chair._] Oh, it cannot, must not, end so!

QUEX.

[_Eyeing her uneasily._] Frankly, I see nothing else for it.

DUCHESS.

I can't credit it. Why, what was the second reason for my coming here?

QUEX.

Second reason?

DUCHESS.

That our parting might be in keeping with our great attachment!

QUEX.

Impossible.

DUCHESS.

Impracticable?

QUEX.

In every way, impossible.

DUCHESS.

[_Taking his hand._] Oh, don't say that, dear Harry! Ah, the auguries tell me that what I ask will be.

QUEX.

[_Omitting, in his anxiety, to withdraw his hand._] The auguries?

DUCHESS.

Fate--coincidence--call it what you please--foreshadows one more meeting between us.

QUEX.

Coincidence?

DUCHESS.

[_Intensely, in a low voice._] Harry, do you remember a particular evening at Stockholm?

QUEX.

[_Hazily._] Stockholm?

DUCHESS.

That evening upon which we discovered how much our society meant to each other!

QUEX.

[_Vaguely, while he hastily recovers possession of his hand._] At Stockholm was it--?

DUCHESS.

You were sailing with us in the Baltic--you must recollect? Our yacht had put in at Stockholm; we had come to the Grand Hotel. Strood had retired, and you and I were sitting out upon the balcony watching the lights of the café on the Norrbro and the tiny steamboats that stole to and fro across the harbour. Surely you recollect?

QUEX.

Yes, yes, of course.

DUCHESS.

Well, do you remember the brand of the champagne you sipped while you and I sat smoking?

QUEX.

Good lord, no!

DUCHESS.

"Félix Poubelle, Carte d'Or." You remarked that it was a brand unknown to you. Have you ever met it since, Harry?

QUEX.

Not that I--

DUCHESS.

Nor I till last night, at dinner. [_Impressively._] It is in this very house.

QUEX.

[_With a slight shrug of the shoulders._] Extremely probable.

DUCHESS.

And do you remember how I was clad, that evening at Stockholm?

QUEX.

I am afraid I don't.

DUCHESS.

_Couleur de rose garnie de vert_. I have just such another garment with me.

QUEX.

Really?

DUCHESS.

Do you remember in what month we were at Stockholm?

QUEX.

No.

DUCHESS.

June--this month. Nor the day of the week?

QUEX.

It must be ten years ago!

DUCHESS.

Wednesday. There stands the record in my diary.

QUEX.

Diary! good heavens, you are not so indiscreet--!

DUCHESS.

No, no--only the words, "warm evening." Yes, it was upon a Wednesday. What is to-day?

QUEX.

Wednesday.

DUCHESS.

[_Rising._] Harry, I want to see you sipping that brand of champagne once more, while you and I sit facing one another, silently, dreamily smoking Argyropulos.

QUEX.

[_Negatively_.] Duchess--

DUCHESS.

To end as we began! you have not the heart to refuse?

QUEX.

I--

DUCHESS.

You do refuse?

QUEX.

I do.

[_She passes him, and again sinks upon the bench._

DUCHESS.

[_Her back towards him, her shoulders heaving._] Oh! oh!

QUEX.

I--I am profoundly sorry to be obliged to speak to you in this fashion.

DUCHESS.

Oh, then I cannot go on Friday!

QUEX.

Not!

DUCHESS.

No! no! no!

QUEX.

Believe me, it would be better for you, for me, for everybody--

DUCHESS.

I cannot! [_Producing a diminutive lace handkerchief._] In the first shock of the news of your engagement--for it was a shock--one thought consoled me; throughout the time that has elapsed since then I have fed upon this same thought--there will be a parting in keeping with our great attachment! And now, you would rob me even of that!

QUEX.

But--but--but--a solemn, deliberate leave-taking! the ceremony, of all others, to be carefully avoided!

DUCHESS.

Not by me, Harry--not by me. I wish to carry, in my breast, from this house the numb despair of a piteous climax. I cannot drive away smugly from these gates with the simple feelings of a woman who has been paying a mere visit--I cannot!

QUEX.

My dear Sidonia--!

DUCHESS.

[_Decidedly._] I say I cannot!

QUEX.

[_To himself, with a little groan._] Oh! phew!

[_He walks to and fro impatiently, reflecting._ SOPHY, _without her hat, comes quickly down the steps as if making for the table. Seeing_ QUEX _and the_ DUCHESS, _she draws back, inquisitively._

QUEX.

[_By the_ DUCHESS'S _side again, helplessly._] Well, I--ha!--I--

DUCHESS.

[_Rising eagerly, laying a hand upon his arm._] You _will_?

[SOPHY _stoops down behind the dwarf cypress-hedge._

QUEX.

You are certain--certain that this would effectually remove the obstacle to your rejoining--[_with a wave of the hand_] on Friday?

DUCHESS.

Why, do you think I would risk an anticlimax? [_In an intense whisper._] To-night! [_Louder._] To-night? [_He hesitates a little longer--then bows in assent, stiffly and coldly. She gives an ardent sigh._] Ah--! [_He retreats a step or two. She draws herself up with dignity._] To-night then--

[_She turns from him and glides away through the trees. He stands for a moment, a frown upon his face, in thought._

QUEX.

[_Suddenly, moving in the direction she has taken._] No, no! Duchess--! [_A gong sounds in the distance, he pauses, looking at his watch, angrily._] Ptshah! [_He turns up the stage and discovers_ SOPHY, _who is now standing behind the hedge._] Hallo! [SOPHY _advances, laughing rather foolishly._] What are you doing here?

SOPHY.

Looking for my rings. I took them off before I began manicuring you.

QUEX.

[_Pointing to the hedge._] You didn't drop them there, did you?

SOPHY.

No, I left them on the table.

QUEX.

[_Looking towards the table._] _There's_ the table.

SOPHY.

[_Coming to the table and putting on her rings_.] Yes, I know.

QUEX.

[_After a short pause._] How long have you been here?

SOPHY.

I? Oh, I'd just come as you spoke to me.

QUEX.

[_Half-satisfied._] Oh--?

[_He goes up the steps, gives her a parting look, and, disappears. It is now twilight._ MRS. EDEN, FRAYNE, _and_ MURIEL--_all dressed for dinner--appear on the other side of the low hedge._

MRS. EDEN.

[_To_ FRAYNE, _walking with him above the hedge._] Delightful, isn't it? It was planted by the late Lord Owbridge's father a hundred years ago.

FRAYNE.

[_Seeing_ SOPHY.] Why, isn't that the young manicure lady?

MRS. EDEN.

Yes. All these pieces of sculpture are genuine old Italian. This quaint little fountain came from the Villa Marchotti--

FRAYNE.

[_Edging towards_ SOPHY.] Alluring.

MRS. EDEN.

This is the fountain.

FRAYNE.

[_Returning to her_.] Quaint old fountain.

SOPHY.

[_To_ MURIEL, _across the hedge in a whisper._] Darling!

MRS. EDEN.

[_Looking into the distance._] I think I see the dear Duchess.

FRAYNE.

[_Alertly._] Where?

MRS. EDEN.

There.

FRAYNE.

I have the honour of knowing her Grace slightly.

MRS. EDEN.

[_Moving away._] What a sweet woman!

FRAYNE.

[_Following her._] Alluring!

[_They disappear through the trees as_ MURIEL, _coming from below the hedge, joins_ SOPHY.

SOPHY.

Darling!

MURIEL.

What is it, Sophy?

SOPHY.

Lord Quex and this--this Duchess--they know each other very well, of course?

MURIEL.

They are old acquaintances, I understand.

SOPHY.

Ah!

MURIEL.

Why do you ask?

SOPHY.

I've just seen them together, talking.

MURIEL.

Talking? why not?

SOPHY.

Yes, but how?

MURIEL.

How?

SOPHY.

I'll tell you. After you went indoors to dress, I took off my rings and put them on that table. [_Looking away rather guiltily._] Rings fidget me, this hot weather--don't they you? Well, just as I'd finished with Mrs. Jack, it suddenly struck me--my rings!--and I hurried back to fetch them. When I got here, I came across Lord Quex and the Duchess.

MURIEL.

[_Calmly._] Yes?

SOPHY.

I stooped down behind that hedge there.

MURIEL.

You did not!

SOPHY.

Oh, I suppose you consider it mean!

MURIEL.

Despicable!

SOPHY.

Despicable, is it! I don't care! My goodness, I'd do the shabbiest thing a woman could do to save you from him!

MURIEL.

[_Peering among the trees._] Hush, hush, hush!

SOPHY.

[_On the verge of tears._] Perhaps you fancy I'm mean from choice? Perhaps you imagine--?

MURIEL.

Be quiet, Sophy!

SOPHY.

[_Giving a sniff and lowering her voice._] Well, here they were, standing exactly where you are, close to each other. [MURIEL _changes her position._] I saw her touch his arm. Oh, I'm positive there's something between those two! "You will?" I heard her say. And then he made a remark about Friday--Friday--

MURIEL.

The Duchess goes on Friday.

SOPHY.

That was it, of course! And then she mumbled something I couldn't catch; and then--listen to this!--then she said "to-night," quite plainly. _To-night!_ and in such a tone of voice! And then he bowed, and out she came with "to-night" again--"to-night," for the second time--and away she went. Now, what do you think that "to-night" of hers means?

MURIEL.

[_Coldly, seating herself upon the bench._] Nothing--anything.

SOPHY.

Nothing!

MURIEL.

A hundred topics of conversation would lead to such an expression. [_Looking at_ SOPHY _steadily._] You are mistaken in the construction you put upon it.

SOPHY.

[_Quietly._] Mistaken, am I?

MURIEL.

[_With clenched hands._] The Duchess of Strood is a most immaculate woman. [_Suddenly._] Oh, it would be too infamous!

[_The_ DUCHESS _and_ FRAYNE, _followed by_ MRS. EDEN, _reappear behind the low hedge._ SOPHY _retreats to the back of the bench upon which_ MURIEL _is sitting. The_ DUCHESS _and_ FRAYNE _approach, talking, while_ MRS. EDEN _chats to_ SOPHY _across the hedge._

FRAYNE.

[_To the_ DUCHESS, _gallantly._] I am flattered by your remembrance of me, Duchess. When we last met I had hardly a grey hair in my head. [_Running his hand through his hair._] Ha! The West Coast--!

DUCHESS.

Is the climate so terrible?

FRAYNE.

Deadly. But the worst of it is, [_with a bow and a sigh_] we have no European ladies.

[MURIEL--_eyeing the_ DUCHESS--_rises, shrinkingly, and steals away._

FRAYNE.

[_Looking after_ MURIEL.] Quex! ha, there's a lucky dog, now!

DUCHESS.

[_Sweetly._] You are delighted, naturally, at your old friend's approaching marriage?

FRAYNE.

[_Kissing his finger-tips towards the left._] Miss Eden--! [_Inquisitively._] And--and _you_, Duchess?

DUCHESS.

[_Raising her eyebrows._] I?

FRAYNE.

You also approve his choice?

DUCHESS.

[_Blandly._] Approve? I am scarcely sufficiently intimate with either party to express approval or disapproval.

FRAYNE.

[_Eyeing her askance._] Pardon. I thought you had known Quex for--ah--some years.

DUCHESS.

Quite superficially. I should describe him rather as a great friend of his Grace.

LADY OWBRIDGE _appears on the top of the steps._

LADY OWBRIDGE.

Are you here, Duchess?

DUCHESS.

[_Turning to her._] Yes.

LADY OWBRIDGE.

[_Coming down the steps._] Oh, I am really very upset!

DUCHESS.

Upset?

LADY OWBRIDGE.

About your maid. The circumstance has only just been reported to me--you have lost your maid. [_Seeing_ FRAYNE.] Is that Sir Chichester? [FRAYNE _advances and shakes hands._] I didn't observe you, in the dusk. Have you seen Henry? I wonder if he is waiting for us in the drawing-room?

FRAYNE.

May I go and hunt for him?

LADY OWBRIDGE.

It would be kind of you.

[FRAYNE _goes up the steps and away._ MRS. EDEN _comes to the stone bench._ MURIEL _returns slowly, coming from among the trees and appearing on the further side of the low hedge._

DUCHESS.

[_To_ LADY OWBRIDGE.] Pray don't be in the least concerned for me, dear Lady Owbridge; the absence of my maid is quite a temporary matter. Poor Watson's father is unwell and I packed her off to him this afternoon. She will be back by mid-day to-morrow, she promises me.

LADY OWBRIDGE.

But, dear me! in the meantime my own woman shall wait upon you.

DUCHESS.

I couldn't dream of it.

MRS. EDEN.

Why not my Gilchrist--or let us share her?

DUCHESS.

No, no; the housemaid who assisted me into this gown--

LADY OWBRIDGE.

Chalmers? well, there's Chalmers, certainly. But I fear that Chalmers has hot hands. Or Denham--no, Denham is suffering from a bad knee. Of course, there's Bruce! Bruce is painfully near-sighted--but would Bruce do? Or little Atkins--?

SOPHY.

[_Stepping from behind the bench, and confronting_ LADY OWBRIDGE--_in a quiet voice._] Or I, my lady?

LADY OWBRIDGE.

You, my dear?

SOPHY.

Why shouldn't _I_ attend upon her Grace to-night and in the morning? [_With half a courtesy to the_ DUCHESS.] I should dearly like to have the honour.

[MURIEL _comes forward, staring at_ SOPHY.

MRS. EDEN.

Now, that's very proper and good-natured of you, Sophy.

LADY OWBRIDGE.

But, Miss Fullgarney--

SOPHY.

[_Modestly._] Oh, I never feel like Miss Fullgarney out of my business, my lady. You see, I was maid for years, and it's second nature to me. Do let me, my lady--do, your Grace!

LADY OWBRIDGE.

Duchess--?

DUCHESS.

[_Hesitatingly._] Oh--oh, by all means. [_To_ SOPHY.] Thank you.

[_The gong sounds in the distance again, as_ QUEX--_now in evening-dress--and_ FRAYNE _return together, above the hedge._

LADY OWBRIDGE.

Here is Quex.

[_The ladies, except_ MURIEL, _join_ FRAYNE _and_ QUEX.

MURIEL.

[_To_ SOPHY.] What are you doing?

SOPHY.

[_Breathlessly._] The housekeeper showed me over the house. I remember--her maid's room is at the end of a passage leading from the boudoir!

MURIEL.

Sophy, you must not! you sha'n't!

SOPHY.

Why, isn't it for the best? If I was mistaken over what I heard just now, I sha'n't see or hear anything wicked to-night; and that will satisfy both of us--!

LADY OWBRIDGE.

[_Calling._] Muriel--

[MURIEL _joins the group;_ SOPHY _slips away and disappears._

LADY OWBRIDGE.

[_To the_ DUCHESS.] Shall we go in?

[LADY OWBRIDGE _and the_ DUCHESS, _and_ MRS. EDEN _and_ MURIEL, _ascend the steps and go towards the house. Instead, of following the ladies,_ QUEX _turns sharply and comes forward with an angry, sullen look upon his face._

FRAYNE.

[_Looking round for_ QUEX.] Hallo, Harry! [_Coming to_ QUEX.] Aren't you--?

QUEX.

Hang dinner! I don't want to eat.

FRAYNE.

Anything wrong, old man? anything I--?

QUEX.

[_Shaking himself up._] No, no; nothing--the hot weather. Come along; we mustn't be late for grace. [_Boisterously._] At any rate, a glass of champagne--[_slapping_ FRAYNE _on the back_] a glass or two of Félix Poubelle, hey? Félix Poubelle, Carte d'Or! ha, ha, ha!

[_As they turn to go, they see_ SOPHY _on the other side of the low hedge, looking at them steadily._

QUEX.

[_To_ FRAYNE, _quietly._] Wait!

[_They stand still, while_ SOPHY _very demurely walks to the steps, ascends them, and disappears._

QUEX.

[_In an altered tone._] Chick--you see that hussy?

FRAYNE.

Miss Fullgarney?

QUEX.

I can't make her out. I believe she wants to play some trick on me.

FRAYNE.

Trick?

QUEX.

'Pon my soul, I believe she's prying--spying on me.

FRAYNE.

That nice gal!

QUEX.

Oh, I daresay I'm wrong. But if I found it so, I--I'd wring her neck.

FRAYNE.

[_Wistfully._] It's an alluring neck.

QUEX.

Possibly. But I'd wring it--!

[_They go up the steps together._

END OF THE SECOND ACT.

THE THIRD ACT

_The scene represents two rooms--a bedroom and a boudoir--separated by an arched opening across which a portière is hung. The portière is, however, drawn aside, and the bedroom, in which is a bed with an elaborate canopy, is partly revealed. The boudoir is nearest to the spectator. Above the fireplace, with bare hearth, on the right, is a broad window running obliquely towards the centre, concealed by heavy curtains. On the left of the window, facing the audience, is a door admitting to a long, narrow passage in which a hanging lamp is burning; and on the left of this door is the arched opening dividing the bedroom from the boudoir. Another door opens into the boudoir on the opposite side from a corridor or landing. Beyond this door, against the wall, is a cabinet, on the top of which is a clock. A chair stands at each end of this cabinet. On the left of the arched opening--placed obliquely, the mirror turned from the audience--is a cheval-glass; and on the right is a sculptured figure or ornamental pillar supporting a lighted lamp. Before the window stands a large dressing-table. On the table are a pair of candelabra with lighted candles, a looking-glass, toilet-bottles, and a hand-mirror. A chair faces the dressing-table. Nearer to the spectator are a writing-table, with a heap of French novels on it, and an arm-chair. Opposite stand a circular table, an arm-chair, and a settee. A silver box containing cigarettes, an ash-tray, a match-stand, and a lighted spirit-lamp are on this table._

_The rooms are richly furnished and decorated, but in an old-fashioned and formal manner. Everything is subdued and faded in tone. There are no pillows upon the chairs, nor on the settee, nor any other signs of ease and comfort. Keys are in the locks of both the doors._

[_The_ DUCHESS _and_ MRS. EDEN _are seated--the_ DUCHESS _in the arm-chair,_ MRS. EDEN _upon the settee--smoking cigarettes._ MRS. EDEN _is wearing a smart dressing-jacket; the_ DUCHESS _is still fully dressed._ SOPHY, _who has assumed an apron, is engaged in bringing hair-brushes and some toilet bottles from the bedroom and in arranging them upon the dressing-table. Her eyes are constantly upon the_ DUCHESS.

MRS. EDEN.

These are awfully pleasant cigarettes. I didn't know you--

DUCHESS.

[_Plaintively._] My doctor insists--for my nerves.

MRS. EDEN.

[_Blowing rings._] I love smoking. Such a bore, because women are rather dropping it. [_Examining her cigarette._] What _are_ these?

DUCHESS

I forget.

MRS. EDEN.

I see--Argyropulos.

[_There is a knock at the door._ SOPHY _goes to the door and opens it slightly; a note is handed to her._

SOPHY.

[_Looking at the note._] Oh, thanks. [_Closing the door._] I beg your pardon, your Grace--it's for me.

[_She returns to the dressing-table, reading the note._

MRS. EDEN.

[_Jestingly._] Ah, Sophy! you must encourage no more sweethearts now, remember.

SOPHY.

This is from _him_, Mrs. Eden--from Mr. Valma, saying good-night. He's gone to bed.

MRS. EDEN.

Good gracious! how do _you_ know?

SOPHY.

Mrs. Gregory, the housekeeper, has allowed him to sleep here to-night, so that we may go back together in the morning.

MRS. EDEN.

Ah, yes.

DUCHESS.

[_Taking off her bracelets._] My jewel-case, Sophy.

[SOPHY _puts the note to her lips, slips it into the bodice of her dress, and re-enters the bedroom._

MRS. EDEN.

[_To the_ DUCHESS.] By-the-by, what _did_ Valma see in your hand, Duchess, after dinner? Why wouldn't you tell us?

DUCHESS.

I was too vexed at the moment. [_With downcast eyes._] He professed to discover that a number of men are in love with me.

MRS. EDEN.

Yes, but what made you angry?

DUCHESS.

Why, _that_.

MRS. EDEN.

That!

DUCHESS.

They were shocking words to listen to, even when spoken by a mere fortune-teller. And you--why did _you_ not confide to us the result of Mr. Valma's reading of your palm?

[SOPHY _comes from the bedroom carrying a jewel-case, which she deposits upon the dressing-table._

MRS. EDEN.

I was in a rage too. Ha! there's only _one_ man in love with _me_, it appears.

DUCHESS.

[_With a shudder._] One is sufficiently dreadful.

MRS. EDEN.

Horrid! [_Making a_ moue.] It's Jack--my husband!

DUCHESS.

[_Reprovingly._] Hush, dear Mrs. Eden! Sophy--[SOPHY _comes to the_ DUCHESS. _Languidly._] I shall read for half-an-hour before attempting to sleep. Put me into something loose.

SOPHY.

Yes, your Grace.

[SOPHY _again retires to the bedroom._

MRS. EDEN.

[_Rising._] May I look at your literature?

[MRS. EDEN _goes to the writing-table and turns over the books she finds there. The_ DUCHESS _glances at the clock, and eyes_ MRS. EDEN _with impatience._

MRS. EDEN.

"_Le Calvaire d'une vierge_." "_Lune de Miel_." "_Les Aventures de Madame Plon_." Oh, I've heard of this! this is a little--h'm!--isn't it?

DUCHESS.

I read those things for the sake of their exquisitely polished style; the subjects escape me.

MRS. EDEN.

[_Seating herself by the writing-table and dipping into_ "_Madame Plon_."] Ah yes, the style--the style. [_Absorbed._] We haven't much real literary style in England, have we?

[SOPHY _returns, carrying a pink tea-gown trimmed with green ribbons, and a richly embroidered Mandarin's robe._

SOPHY.

Will your Grace put on one of these? [_With a curl of the lip._] They're both very becoming, I should think.

DUCHESS.

[_Smiling sadly._] Becoming! as if that mattered, child!

SOPHY.

Which will your Grace--?

DUCHESS.

[_To herself, closing her eyes._] _Couleur de rose_--[_to_ SOPHY] er--that pink rag. Take off my collarette.

[SOPHY _lays the tea-gown and the robe over the back of the settee and proceeds to unfasten the_ DUCHESS'S _pearl collarette._

MRS. EDEN.

[_Startled, by some passage in the book she is reading._] Oh, I _say_!

DUCHESS.

What, dear Mrs. Eden?

MRS. EDEN.

[_Bethinking herself--soberly._] Ah, yes, the style is excellent, isn't it?

DUCHESS.

[_To_ SOPHY, _while the collarette is in process of removal._] Have you everything you require for the night, child?

SOPHY.

Yes, thank you, your Grace. Miss Gilchrist, Mrs. Eden's maid, has lent me a night-gown and a pair of slippers.

DUCHESS.

[_Handing her bracelets to_ SOPHY.] Drop them into the case.

[SOPHY _puts the collarette and bracelets in the jewel-case. The_ DUCHESS, _rising, again looks at the clock and at_ MRS. EDEN. SOPHY _returns to the_ DUCHESS, _who is now behind the settee._

DUCHESS.

[_To_ SOPHY.] It is very good of you, Sophy, to attend upon me.

SOPHY.

[_Averting her head._] Not at all, your Grace.

DUCHESS.

[_Taking up the Mandarin's robe._] Here is a pretty thing for you. [_Giving the robe to_ SOPHY.] Wear it to dress your hair in, in the morning.

SOPHY.

[_Breathing shortly._] Oh, no, your Grace--please--!

DUCHESS.

Nonsense, child; take it.

[SOPHY, _somewhat out of countenance, lays the robe over the back of the chair._

MRS. EDEN.

[_Looking up_.] Well, you are a lucky girl, Sophy!

SOPHY.

Yes, I know it's very beautiful; [_returning to the_ DUCHESS] but I--I think I'd rather not--

DUCHESS.

Tsch, tsch! help me. [_The_ DUCHESS _is standing before the cheval-glass, which conceals her from the audience. With_ SOPHY'S _aid, she slips out of her dress and puts herself into the tea-gown, while she talks to_ MRS. EDEN.] Miss Eden is not well to-night, I am afraid. She didn't come into the drawing-room.

[MRS. EDEN _rises and goes to the settee, upon which she partly kneels while she chatters to the_ DUCHESS.

MRS. EDEN.

She complained of headache and bolted upstairs. Muriel is such an odd girl at times.

DUCHESS.

A sweet one.

MRS. EDEN.

Perfectly adorable. Only I wish she wasn't so moody and uncertain.

DUCHESS.

But a headache--[_sympathetically_] dear child!

MRS. EDEN.

An engaged girl ought not to have a headache--no girl ought. It's just one of those things that makes a man ponder.

DUCHESS.

Ponder?

MRS. EDEN.

Reflect. A man loves to think a girl is like an angel--beautiful pink and white right through, with no clockwork. The moment she complains of headache, or toothache, or a chilblain on the heel, the angel game is off, and she's got to try and hold her own as a simple mortal. And as a mortal she's not in it with a man. No, it's angel or nothing with us women. I remember my Mater saying to me when I was engaged to Jack, "Sybil, now mind! enjoy the very best of health till you have been married at least ten years; and then be sure you have an excellent motive for cracking-up." [_The clock tinkles out the half-hour. She glances at the clock._] Half-past-eleven! the dead of night for this house! [_Rising._] I'll be off to my cot.

[SOPHY _carries the_ DUCHESS'S _dress into the bedroom._

DUCHESS.

[_Coming to_ MRS. EDEN.] _Must_ you? Good-night.

MRS. EDEN.

So nice of you to allow me this gossip.

DUCHESS.

Delighted.

[_They kiss affectionately._

MRS. EDEN.

We go shopping together to-morrow, do we not?

DUCHESS.

Yes, yes.

MRS. EDEN.

[_With exaggerated regret._] To-morrow! your last day here! misery! [_At the door, finding she still has "Madame Plon" in her hand._] Oh! do you happen to be on this one?

DUCHESS.

Not that one.

MRS. EDEN.

I wonder whether you'd lend it to me?

DUCHESS.

Gladly.

MRS. EDEN.

As you say, there is something about these French writers--

DUCHESS.

Style.

MRS. EDEN.

That's it--style. [_Opening the door._] Ah! lights out.

DUCHESS.

Can you see?

MRS. EDEN.

[_Going out._] There's just a glimmer--

[_She disappears._

DUCHESS.

I'll keep the door open till you have turned the corner.

[SOPHY _comes back and stands watching the_ DUCHESS. _The_ DUCHESS _remains at the open door for a little, while, then kisses her hand to_ MRS. EDEN _and closes the door._

SOPHY.

Shall I brush your Grace's hair now?

DUCHESS.

[_Going to the writing-table and taking up a book._] No. I will do it. The exertion of brushing my hair, I often find, encourages sleep. I'll put myself to bed. Run away. Don't let me see or hear anything of you till the morning. Eight o'clock. [_She reclines upon the settee and opens her book._ SOPHY, _eyeing her keenly, is about to withdraw._] Oh--Sophy! [SOPHY _returns._] Do you--believe in Mr. Valma?

SOPHY.

Believe in him, your Grace?

DUCHESS.

Believe that when he reads a woman's hand he has really the power of divination--the power he professes?

SOPHY.

Oh, yes.

DUCHESS.

[_Looking away._] Then if he tells a woman that a great many men are deeply in love with her, you--you--?

SOPHY.

I'm sure he knows what he's talking about.

DUCHESS.

[_With a little purr of contentment._] Ah! [_Assuming indifference._] I heard recently of an instance of his having conjectured such a state of affairs from the lines of a woman's hand. [_Severely._] I could only hope that his surmise was an incorrect one.

SOPHY.

[_Her eyes flashing scornfully._] You see, your Grace, if a woman is pretty, and Valma finds Venus's girdle well marked in her palm; and if he concludes from other signs that she's vain and light and loose; it isn't much to suppose that there are a few horrid men licking their lips at the thought of her.

DUCHESS.

[_Shocked._] My good girl! what curious expressions you make use of! [_Resuming her reading._] That's all.

[SOPHY _goes to the door and opens it._

SOPHY.

I wish your Grace good-night.

DUCHESS.

[_Raising her head for a moment._] Good-night. You are not taking your robe.

[SOPHY _looks at the robe and hesitates; in the end she gathers it up uneasily._

SOPHY.

I--I am very much obliged to your Grace--

DUCHESS.

Yes, you have thanked me enough. Turn out the lamp in that passage.

SOPHY.

Certainly, your Grace.

[SOPHY _disappears, shutting the door after her. The_ DUCHESS _remains quite still for a moment, then rises promptly, replaces her book, and--seating herself at the dressing-table--puts her hair in order. This done, she takes up the hand-mirror and smiles, frowns, and looks caressingly at herself. Then she lays the hand-mirror aside, blows out the candles upon the dressing-table, and poses before the cheval-glass. Ultimately, completely assured as to her appearance, she cautiously opens the door at which_ SOPHY _has departed, and, going a few steps along the passage, listens with strained ears. The passage is now in darkness. Apparently satisfied, the_ DUCHESS _returns, and, closing the door gently, turns the key in the lock. Her next proceeding is to attempt to tear one of the ribbons from her tea-gown. Failing in this, she detaches it with the aid of a pair of scissors, and, opening the door leading from the corridor, ties the ribbon to the outer door-handle. Whereupon she closes the door and walks about the room contentedly. Suddenly she pauses, and, going to the cabinet, produces a small tray on which are a bottle of champagne and a champagne glass. Placing the tray on the circular table, she regards the single glass thoughtfully. Then, as if struck by an idea, she disappears into the bedroom. After a brief interval, the door opens softly and_ QUEX _enters, carrying a lighted wax match. Being in, he shuts the door silently and looks about the room. Hearing the_ DUCHESS _in the adjoining apartment, he frowns and blows out the match. Coming to the circular table, he contemplates the preparation for his reception with distaste; then, flinging the match into the ash-tray, he sits, with a set, determined look upon his face. After another short pause, the_ DUCHESS _returns, polishing a tumbler with a cambric handkerchief._ QUEX _rises._

DUCHESS.

[_Under her breath._] Ah! [_He bows stiffly. She places the tumbler on the tray, tosses the handkerchief aside, and--first motioning him to stand away from the line of the door--opens the door, removes the ribbon from the handle, closes and locks it. Then she turns to him with a long-drawn sigh._] Ah--h--h!

QUEX.

[_Coming down gloomily._] Is it all right?

DUCHESS.

Quite. [_Advancing to him with outstretched hands._] Welcome, Harry! oh, welcome!

QUEX.

[_Retreating a few steps--firmly._] One moment. I have something to ask of you, Sidonia. [_Looking round._] You are sure--?

DUCHESS.

Yes, yes. Only don't raise your voice; [_glancing towards the door_] my maid sleeps in a room at the end of that passage. [_Gracefully seating herself upon the settee and motioning him to sit beside her._] Sit down. Oh, the woe of this final meeting! the pathos of it!

QUEX.

[_Bitterly, withdrawing the chair a little further from the table._] Yes, I agree with you--there is an element of wofulness in this meeting; it is not altogether without pathos.

DUCHESS.

Not altogether!

QUEX.

[_Sitting, facing her._] But, for yourself, my dear Sidonia--well, I have the consolation of believing that directly you turn your back upon Fauncey Court much of the wofulness of your position will evaporate.

DUCHESS.

Harry!

QUEX.

Forgive me--you admit that you delight in colouring even the most ordinary events of life rather highly. If I may put it more roughly, you are disposed, my dear Sidonia--at times, perhaps, a little inopportunely--to burn a good deal of red fire. [_Leaning forward._] At any rate, I beg an especial favour of you to-night.

DUCHESS.

What--?

QUEX.

[_Distinctly._] No red fire.

DUCHESS.

[_Chilled._] Is this the something you had to ask of me? [_He bows in assent._] I cannot remember ever having seen you in this mood.

QUEX.

This is our first actual _tête-à-tête_ since my engagement to Miss Eden.

DUCHESS.

Oh, I understand.

QUEX.

And now shall I tell you where the wofulness and the pathos most conspicuously display themselves on this occasion?

DUCHESS.

If you wish to.

QUEX.

In the confounded treachery of my being here at all.

DUCHESS.

Treachery?

QUEX.

You know I am under a bond of good behaviour to my old aunt and to the Edens.

DUCHESS.

[_With a slight shrug of the shoulders._] Really?

QUEX.

Yes. [_Clenching his teeth._] And this is how I observe it. After all my resolutions, this--this is how I observe it.

[_He rises and paces up and down the room._

DUCHESS.

[_Fretfully._] I am bound to remark that your present behaviour appears quite unimpeachable.

QUEX.

Unimpeachable! here--alone--in your company!

DUCHESS.

[_Covering her eyes with her hand._] Oh, cruel, cruel!

QUEX.

[_Pausing._] Cruel--?

DUCHESS.

[_With heaving bosom._] But there! if you deny me the possession of real feeling, why should you hesitate to rain blows on me?

QUEX.

[_Softening, coming to her._] My dear Sidonia, I don't--I don't mean to--

DUCHESS.

[_Rising, and grasping his hands._] Oh, Harry!

QUEX.

Tsch! please! [_He releases himself and she sinks back upon the settee, her eyes closed. He regards her uncomfortably for a moment; then, with some hesitation, he produces from his coat-tail pocket a small box covered with a pretty brocade, with which he toys uneasily._] You expressed a wish to leave here on Friday with a sensation of despair at your heart, Sidonia. If your feeling about our parting is really a deep one, heaven knows I have no desire to make it more acute--

DUCHESS.

[_Partly opening her eyes._] What is in that box, Harry?

QUEX.

That is just what I was about to--to--[_Lifting the lid and closing it._] These are the little souvenirs which have passed from you to me at odd times.

DUCHESS.

[_With reviving interest._] Ah, yes.

QUEX.

I have had no other opportunity--[_Looking about him awkwardly for a place to deposit the box._] Will you--? shall I--? what the devil's to become of 'em?

DUCHESS.

[_Sitting upright and passing her hand over her back hair._] Were there a fire, we could crouch over it and watch the flames consume them one by one.

QUEX.

But there isn't a fire.

DUCHESS.

[_Rising, and taking the box from him._] Let us examine them.

QUEX.

No, no, no.

DUCHESS.

Yes, yes. [_Opening the box and gazing into it._] Ah, poor little objects! dead, yet animate; silent, yet, oh, how eloquent! Don't go away--[_She overturns the contents of the box on to the table. They stand opposite each other, looking down upon the litter. She picks up a ring._] A ring--[_thoughtfully_] turquoise and pearl. [_Recollecting._] Stockholm! You remember--that night you and I sat watching the lights of the café on the Norrbro--!

QUEX.

[_Hastily._] Yes, yes; you've recalled it already to-day.

DUCHESS.

[_Picking up a scarf-pin._] A scarf-pin. Copenhagen! Ah, that pretty state-room of mine on the _Irene_!

QUEX.

Yes, yes, charming.

DUCHESS.

[_Taking up a locket._] A locket--my name in brilliants. Genoa! Look, it still contains my hair.

QUEX.

[_Nodding._] H'm, um.

DUCHESS.

[_Taking up a white shoe._] My shoe. Where--?

QUEX.

[_Shaking his head._] I don't--

DUCHESS.

Mentone!

QUEX.

Of course--Mentone.

DUCHESS.

[_Discovering some object in the shoe._] What is this? [_Producing a garter of pale-blue silk, with a diamond buckle._] A--a--where--? ah, yes. [_Replacing the things in the box._] Oh, the poor little objects! dead, yet animate; silent, yet, oh, how eloquent!

[_She passes him and slips the box into the drawer of the writing-table. The clock strikes a quarter to twelve._

QUEX.

[_Glancing at the clock._] By Jove, it's late! I--I'll leave you now, Sidonia.

DUCHESS.

[_Turning._] No, no--not yet, Harry. [_Coming to the table and taking up the box of cigarettes._] Why, you forget--[_offering him the box_] Argyropulos!

QUEX.

[_Accepting a cigarette reluctantly._] Thanks. [_Again looking at the clock._] Well--three minutes.

DUCHESS.

[_Taking a cigarette, replacing the box, and holding the spirit lamp while he lights his cigarette from it._] You were not always so impatient. [_In lighting his cigarette, the flame of the lamp is blown out._] Ah! [_After replacing the lamp, she lights her cigarette from his, gazing into his eyes._] Argyropulos. [_Dreamily._] Once more--Argyropulos.

QUEX.

Yes, yes--capital tobacco.

[_He gets away from her._

DUCHESS.

And look! you see, Harry?

QUEX.

[_Turning._] Eh?

DUCHESS.

[_Pointing to the bottle of champagne._] "Félix Poubelle, Carte d'Or"! [_Taking up the scissors which she has left upon the table._] The wire is already severed.

[_She commences to cut the string. He comes to her._

QUEX.

[_Taking the scissors from her._] Oh, permit me.

[_Always intent upon avoiding her, he moves away, the bottle in his hand, cutting the string._

DUCHESS.

[_Following him._] Is it likely to make a loud report?

QUEX.

Hardly.

DUCHESS.

[_Frowning censoriously._] One doesn't want a sound of that sort to ring through the corridors. [_Looking about her impatiently._] These formal, frigid rooms!