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!
[She runs lightly into the bedroom, snatches a pillow from the bed, and returns to him.
Quex.
[His hand upon the cork.] What is that for?
Duchess.
[Enveloping his hand and the bottle in the pillow—calmly.] It is wiser to muffle it.
[He pauses, looking at her fixedly.
Quex.
[In a low, grave voice.] Dolly—
Duchess.
Dolly! [Closing her eyes.] You give me my pet name again!
Quex.
Ah, Dolly, if only there wasn’t quite so much in one’s life—to muffle! [He pulls the cork. She tosses the pillow on to the settee, a little irritably.] May I—?
[She inclines her head. He pours wine into the glasses; she takes the champagne glass, he the tumbler.
Duchess.
[Sentimentally.] Félix Poubelle, Carte d’Or! [Looking at him over the brim of her glass.] Eh bien! au joyeux passé!
Quex.
Non, non—à un avenir meilleur!
Duchess.
Que vous êtes prosaïque! soit! [They drink. She sits, with a sigh of dissatisfaction.] Ah!
Quex.
[Leaning against the table, drinking his wine.] Wonderful wine—really exceptional. [Struck by a thought, turning to her.] Forgive me—you must have found some difficulty in introducing Monsieur Félix Poubelle into this hallowed apartment.
Duchess.
No. [Sipping her wine.] My maid thinks it is by my doctor’s orders.
Quex.
Your maid, yes—[sipping his wine; then sitting upon the settee, glass in hand] but my poor aunt must be highly scandalised.
Duchess.
[Her glass at her lips.] Dear Lady Owbridge will not know. I told the girl to coax it out of the butler, as if it were for herself. These women have a way of doing such things.
Quex.
[Laughing rather sadly.] Ha, ha, ha! who is beyond temptation? Not even old Bristow—sixty if he’s a day.
Duchess.
[Shrugging her shoulders.] Sixty or sixteen—when a girl is fascinating—
Quex.
Fascinating! your woman, Watson!
Duchess.
No, no—Watson has left me for a few hours. I am speaking of Sophy.
[There is a brief silence. Quex, surprised in the act of drinking, lowers his glass slowly.
Quex.
[In a queer voice.] Sophy?
Duchess.
Miss Fullgarney, the manicurist. She was so good as to offer to take Watson’s place for to-night.
Quex.
[Looking steadily before him.] Oh?
[There is another pause. The Duchess puts down her glass and, with her foot, pushes the footstool towards Quex.
Duchess.
[Sliding from her chair on to the footstool.] Oh, Harry, the bitterness of this final meeting! the dull agony of it!
[He gets rid of his tumbler and touches her arm.
Quex.
[Quietly.] Duchess—
Duchess.
[Surprised.] Eh?
Quex.
I am sorry to alarm you, but this girl—Miss Eden’s foster-sister—
Duchess.
What about her?
Quex.
She’s a cat.
Duchess.
Cat!
Quex.
[Gathering his ideas as he proceeds.] A common hussy, not above playing tricks—spying—
Duchess.
Spying!
Quex.
I caught her behind the hedge this evening, in the Italian garden, after you and I had been talking together.
Duchess.
Behind the hedge!
Quex.
She had previously done her best to make an ass of me, while you were dressing for dinner—! [Looking towards the passage-door.] Where do you say her room is?
Duchess.
At the end of that passage. [They rise together, with very little movement.] Oh, but she is in bed, and asleep!
Quex.
Is she?
Duchess.
Harry!
Quex.
Wait—! [He goes to the door, and examines the key-hole. Then he turns to the Duchess and beckons to her. She joins him. He says, in a whisper, pointing to the key-hole.] Do you notice—?
Duchess.
What?
Quex.
The key is in the lock horizontally.
Duchess.
She may have been peeping at us? [He nods. She is sick at the thought.] How inexcusably careless of me!
Quex.
[At her elbow.] Listen. I’ll keep out of sight. Open the door boldly and walk along the passage. See if there is any sign of movement—
Duchess.
Yes, yes. [Steadying herself.] Perhaps we are disturbing ourselves unnecessarily.
Quex.
[Nodding reassuringly.] Perhaps so.
[He draws back into the bedroom, but so that he can put his head out at the opening, and watch the Duchess’s proceedings. She goes to the door and lays her hand upon the key.
Duchess.
[Faltering.] Oh! oh, great heavens!
Quex.
[Encouragingly.] It’s all right—it’s all right. Very likely I am mistaken. Now!
[The Duchess opens the door suddenly, and Sophy, who is kneeling at the key-hole, lurches forward.
Duchess.
Ah!
[Sophy, enveloped in the Mandarin’s robe, gathers herself up and, without a word, flies away along the passage. The Duchess shuts the door and walks unsteadily to the settee. Quex comes down, his mouth set hard.
Quex.
I was sure of it.
Duchess.
[Aghast.] What will she do? will she tell?
Quex.
Yes—she’ll tell.
Duchess.
Why do you speak so positively?
Quex.
She is in Miss Eden’s confidence—the trull. And she has always shown her teeth at me, now I remember. [Drawing a deep breath.] Oh, yes, I see—Miss Fullgarney has meant mischief throughout.
Duchess.
[Sinking upon the settee.] Oh!
Quex.
[Quietly.] Well—I’m done.
Duchess.
Oh, my reputation!
Quex.
I’m—done.
Duchess.
My reputation! I have never ceased to guard that, as you know.
Quex.
I’ve lost her.
Duchess.
My reputation!
Quex.
Of course, I deserve it. But—
[He sits, his head bowed.
Duchess.
[Looking up.] To think—to think that I allowed this plausible creature to thrust herself upon me! [He raises his head, glaring fiercely. She beats the pillow.] Oh! oh! my reputation in the hands of this low creature!
Quex.
Ah—! [With a half-smothered cry he goes to the door and pulls it open. The Duchess runs after him and seizes his arm.] I said I’d wring her damned neck—I told Frayne so.
Duchess.
[Pushing him away from the door.] Don’t! don’t! violence will not help us. [She closes the door; he stands clutching the chair by the writing-table. The clock strikes twelve.] Midnight. [Leaning upon a chair.] At any rate, you had better go now.
Quex.
[Turning to her.] I beg your pardon; I regret having lost control of myself.
Duchess.
[Miserably.] It has been a wretchedly disappointing meeting.
Quex.
[Heavily.] Let us see each other in the morning. [She nods.] Be walking in the grounds by nine.
Duchess.
Yes. [Rallying.] After all, Harry, there may be nothing behind this woman’s behaviour. It may have been only the vulgarest curiosity on her part.
Quex.
[Incredulously.] Ha! However, in that case—
Duchess.
Money.
Quex.
Money.
Duchess.
I ought to sound her directly she presents herself at my bedside, ought I not?
Quex.
Earlier—before she has had time to get about the house. Stand at nothing. If she’s to be bought, she shall have whatever she demands—any sum!
Duchess.
How liberal of you!
[Quex walks towards the door, then turns to her.
Quex.
One thing I hope I need hardly say, Duchess?
Duchess.
What—?
Quex.
[With dignity.] Worst come to the worst, I shall defend you by every means in my power. I’m done, I feel sure; [drawing himself up] but, of course, I shall lie for you like the devil.
Duchess.
[Plaintively.] Thanks. And I have dragged you into it all.
Quex.
Tsch! [Bowing stiffly.] Good-night.
Duchess.
Good-night. [She goes to the table and prepares to remove the tray. Having turned the key of the door, Quex pauses. She says fretfully.] Oh, why don’t you go, Harry?
Quex.
[Facing her sharply, a new light in his eyes.] No! you go.
Duchess.
[In astonishment.] I!
Quex.
[Returning to her excitedly.] I tell you I can’t wait through a night of suspense! Quick! [Facing the room.] Leave me to deal with her here, at once.
Duchess.
You!
Quex.
[Snapping his fingers.] By Jove, yes!
Duchess.
What are you going to do?
Quex.
Give her a fair chance, and then spoil her tale against you, in any event.
Duchess.
How?
Quex.
Trust to me. [Impatiently.] Go, Duchess.
Duchess.
But where? where can I—?
Quex.
Run away to Mrs. Jack—ask her to let you share her room to-night. [Pointing to the writing-table.] Ah—! scribble a message—
[The Duchess seats herself at the writing-table and writes agitatedly at his dictation.
Quex.
[Dictating.] “The Duchess of Strood has been seized with a dreadful fit of nerves and has gone to Mrs. Eden’s room. Come to her there at eight.” Lay that upon the bed. [Indicating the bedroom.] Is there a door in there?
Duchess.
[Rising breathlessly.] Yes.
Quex.
Locked?
Duchess.
Yes.
Quex.
The key. [Imperatively.] Give me the key. [She runs into the bedroom and, having laid the written message upon the bed, disappears for a moment. He refills his tumbler and drinks, chuckling sardonically as he does so.] Ha, ha, ha! [She returns with the key, which he pockets.] The bell that rings in your maid’s room—? [She points to the bell-rope hanging beside the passage-door.] Good. [Motioning to her to go.] Now— [She is going towards the other door; he detains her.] Hist! [Thoughtfully.] If anything unusual should occur, remember that we were simply discussing books and pictures in the Italian garden before dinner.
Duchess.
[Intently.] Books and pictures—of course. [In an outburst.] Oh, you are certain you can save my reputation?
Quex.
[Politely.] Yours at least, my dear Duchess. Sleep well.
[She is about to open the door when a thought strikes her and she again runs up to the bed.
Duchess.
Ah—!
Quex.
Hey?
[She returns, carrying her night-dress case—a thing of white satin with a monogram and coronet embroidered upon it. She holds it up to him in explanation; he nods, and she lets herself out. He immediately locks the door at which she has departed and slips the key into his waistcoat pocket. This done, he pulls the bell-rope communicating with the maid’s room and takes up a position against the wall so that the opening of the passage door conceals him from the view of the person entering. After a pause the door is opened and Sophy appears. The frills of her night-dress peep out from under the Mandarin’s robe, and she is wearing a pair of scarlet cloth slippers; altogether she presents an odd, fantastic figure. She pauses in the doorway hesitatingly, then steadies herself and, with a defiant air, stalks into the bedroom. Directly she has moved away, Quex softly closes the door, locks it, and pockets the key. Meanwhile Sophy, looking about the bedroom for the Duchess, discovers the paper upon the bed. She picks it up, reads it and replaces it, and, coming back into the boudoir, encounters Quex.
Sophy.
Oh!
Quex.
[With a careless nod.] Ah?
Sophy.
[Recovering herself, and speaking with a contemptuous smile.] So her Grace has packed herself off to Mrs. Eden’s room. [Firmly.] Who rang for me, please?
Quex.
I rang.
Sophy.
You? what for?
Quex.
Oh, you and I are going to have a cosy little chat together.
Sophy.
[Haughtily.] I don’t understand you.
Quex.
We’ll understand one another well enough, in a minute.
[He lights another cigarette and seats himself upon the settee. She moves to the back of a chair, eyeing him distrustfully.
Quex.
Now then! You’ve been at the key-hole, have you?
Sophy.
[Slightly embarrassed.] Y—yes.
Quex.
[Sharply.] Eh?
Sophy.
[Defiantly.] Yes; you know I have.
Quex.
Ah. And I should like to know a little more, while we are upon the delicate subject of spying. When I found you behind the cypress-hedge this evening before dinner—
Sophy.
Well?
Quex.
You had just at that moment returned to the Italian garden, you said.
Sophy.
Yes, so I said.
Quex.
As a matter of fact, you had been there some time, I presume?
Sophy.
A minute or two.
Quex.
Heard anything?
Sophy.
[Laughing maliciously.] Ha, ha, ha! I heard her Grace say, “to-night”—[faintly mimicking the Duchess] “to-night!” [With a curl of the lip.] That was enough for me.
Quex.
Quite so. You told a deliberate lie, then, when I questioned you?
Sophy.
Yes.
Quex.
Earlier in the evening, that manicure game of yours—nothing but a damned cunning trick, eh?
Sophy.
I beg you won’t use such language.
Quex.
A trick, eh?
Sophy.
Certainly.
Quex.
You wanted—what did you want?
Sophy.
[Disdainfully.] A kiss, or a squeeze of the waist—anything of that sort would have done.
Quex.
Oh, would it? You didn’t get what you wanted, though.
Sophy.
No; I suppose you were frightened.
Quex.
[Angrily.] What!
Sophy.
Too many people about for you.
Quex.
[Stifling his annoyance.] Tsch! If I had—[with a wave of the hand] what course would you have taken, pray?
Sophy.
[With an air of great propriety.] Complained at once to Lady Owbridge.
Quex.
As it is—what do you think of doing now?
Sophy.
About you and her Grace?
Quex.
[Scowling.] Yes.
Sophy.
Oh, tell the ladies in the morning, first thing.
Quex.
[Again putting a check upon himself.] Ha, ha! Why do you behave in this contemptible way?
Sophy.
It isn’t contemptible.
Quex.
Isn’t it?
Sophy.
Not under the circumstances.
Quex.
What circumstances?
Sophy.
[Hotly.] A wicked man like you engaged to a sweet girl like Miss Muriel!
Quex.
I see. [Politely.] You don’t approve of the engagement?
Sophy.
Should think not!
Quex.
Always done your best to poison Miss Eden’s mind against me, I expect?
Sophy.
Always let her know my opinion of you. And I was right!
Quex.
Right?
Sophy.
This very day, poor thing, she was saying how proud she is of you because you’ve turned over a new leaf for her sake; and I told her what your promises are worth. Yes, I was right! And now I can prove it!
[He rises; she hastily places herself on the other side of the chair.
Quex.
Look here! [Leaning against the table, the chair being between him and Sophy.] What will you take to hold your tongue?
Sophy.
Nothing.
Quex.
Oh, but wait. This isn’t a matter of a handful of sovereigns. I’ll give you a couple of thousand pounds to keep quiet about this.
Sophy.
No, thank you, my lord.
Quex.
Four thousand.
Sophy.
[Shaking her head.] No.
Quex.
Five.
Sophy.
No.
Quex.
How much?
Sophy.
Not twenty thousand. I’m extremely comfortably off, my lord, but if I wasn’t I wouldn’t accept a penny of your money. All I wish is to save Miss Muriel from marrying a—a gentleman who isn’t fit for her. And that’s what I intend doing.
[They stand looking at each other for a moment, silently; then he walks away, thoughtfully.
Quex.
[In an altered tone.] Come here.
Sophy.
[With an eye on the door.] Certainly not.
Quex.
As you please. Miss Fullgarney—
Sophy.
I hear you.
Quex.
I should like to settle this business with you pleasantly—if possible. Allow me to say this. I don’t think I am quite such an atrocious person as you appear to believe; in fact I can assure you I am not.
Sophy.
[Gathering her robe about her and advancing a few steps.] You must excuse me, my lord, but—[glancing round the room] you evidently forget where you are.
Quex.
No, I don’t; but I tell you—I tell you sincerely—that my visit to her Grace to-night was an innocent one.
Sophy.
[Turning her head away, in great disdain.] Really!
Quex.
Really. You won’t accept money?
Sophy.
No, indeed, I will not.
Quex.
Very well. Ha! it’s an odd attitude for a man like myself to adopt towards—[indicating Sophy by a motion of the hand.] But I make an appeal to you.
Sophy.
[Elevating her eyebrows.] Appeal?
Quex.
[With simple feeling and dignity.] I love Miss Eden. I would be a good husband to that young lady. Let me off.
Sophy.
Let you off?
Quex.
Don’t tell on me. Don’t try to rob me of Miss Eden. Let me off.
Sophy.
I’m sorry to say I can’t, my lord.
Quex
You won’t?
Sophy.
I won’t. [With a slight inclination of the head Quex turns away and stands leaning against the settee with his back towards Sophy. The clock strikes the quarter-of-an-hour. There is a short silence.] If your lordship has quite done with me—? [He makes no response. She tosses her head.] I wish you good-night, my lord. [She goes to the passage-door and turns the handle.] It’s locked. This door’s locked. [Looking at him.] The door’s locked. [Rattling at the door-handle.] Where’s the key? [Searching about on the floor near the door.] Where’s the—? [Coming forward a step or two.] Has your lordship got the key of this door? [Still obtaining no answer, she stands staring at him for a moment; then she goes quickly to the other door and tries the handle. As she does so, Quex turns sharply and, leaning upon the back of the settee, watches her. After shaking the door-handle vigorously, she wheels round and faces him, indignantly.] What’s the meaning of this?
Quex.
[Grimly.] Ah!
Sophy.
Oh—! [She sweeps round to avoid him, and then runs into the bedroom. When she has gone he seats himself in the chair by the writing-table in a lazy attitude, his legs stretched out, his hands in his pockets. After a moment or two she returns breathlessly.] I’m locked in!
Quex.
Yes.
Sophy.
You have locked me in!
Quex.
Yes.
Sophy.
How dare you!
Quex.
Why, you didn’t think you were going to have it all your own way, did you, Sophy?
Sophy.
I’ll thank you to be less familiar. Let me out.
Quex.
Not I.
Sophy.
You let me out directly.
Quex.
[Pointing a finger at her.] You’ll gain nothing by raging, my good girl. Ha! now you appreciate the curiously awkward position in which you have placed yourself.
Sophy.
I’ve placed myself in no—
Quex.
Oh, come, come! Taking me at my blackest, I’m not quite the kind of man that a young woman who prides herself upon her respectability desires to be mixed up with in this fashion.
Sophy.
Mixed up with!
Quex.
Well—[stretching out his arms] here we are, you know.
Sophy.
Here we are!
Quex.
You and I, dear Sophy. [Putting his leg over the arm of his chair.] Now just sit down—
Sophy.
I sha’n’t.
Quex.
While I picture to you what will happen in the morning.
Sophy.
In the morning?
Quex.
In a few hours’ time. In the first place, you will be called in your room. You won’t be there.
Sophy.
Won’t I!
Quex.
No. You won’t be there. A little later my man will come to my room. I sha’n’t be there. At about the same hour, her Grace will require your attendance. Where will you be? She will then, naturally, desire to return to her own apartments. You are intelligent enough, I fancy, to imagine the rest. [After a brief pause, she breaks into a peal of soft, derisive laughter.] I am deeply flattered by your enjoyment of the prospect.
Sophy.
Ha, ha, ha! why, you must take me for a fool!
Quex.
Why?
Sophy.
Why, can’t you see that our being found together like this, here or anywhere, would do for you as well as for me?
Quex.
[Rising.] Of course I see it. [Advancing to her.] But, my dear Sophy, I am already done for. You provide for that. And so, if I have to part with my last shred of character, I will lose it in association with a woman of your class rather than with a lady whom I, with the rest of the world, hold in the highest esteem.
Sophy.
[After a pause.] Ho! oh, indeed?
Quex.
Yes. Yes, indeed.
Sophy.
[With a shade less confidence.] Ha, ha! if your lordship thinks to frighten me, you’ve got hold of the wrong customer. Ha, ha, ha! two or three things you haven’t reckoned for, I can assure you. Here’s one—I told Miss Muriel exactly what I heard, between you and your Duchess, in the garden this evening.
Quex.
[Grinding his teeth.] You did! [Involuntarily making a threatening movement towards her.] You did, you—!
Sophy.
[Cowering over the settee.] Oh!
Quex.
[Recovering himself.] Oh, you did, did you?
Sophy.
[Facing him defiantly.] Yes, I did.
Quex.
[Coolly.] Well? and what then? You listen to a conversation carried on in an open spot, from which your mischievous ears manage to detach the phrase “to-night.” My explanation, if I am called upon to make one, will be absurdly simple.
Sophy.
[Derisively.] Ha, ha! will it! ha, ha, ha! I daresay!
Quex.
Yes. You see, I promised her Grace that I would send a book to her room to-night—to-night. My man had gone to bed; I brought it myself, intending to hand it to Mrs. Watson, her maid. In the meantime, the Duchess had joined Mrs. Eden and I found you here.
Sophy.
You couldn’t tell such an abominable lie!
Quex.
[Imperturbably.] I found you here. And then—what is the obvious sequel to the story? [Shrugging his shoulders.] I’m a wicked man, Sophy, and you’re an undeniably pretty girl—and the devil dared me.
Sophy.
Oh—!
Quex.
[Taking up the bottle of champagne.] And an excellent banquet you had chanced to provide for the occasion. [Reading the label.] “Félix Poubelle, Carte d’Or.” It will appear, I am afraid, that you had been preparing for the entertainment of some amorous footman.
Sophy.
[Snapping her fingers at him.] Puh! bah! Oh, the whole house shall know that that is your Duchess’s champagne.
Quex.
Excuse me—Mr. Brewster, the butler, will disprove that tale. You wheedled this out of him on your own account, remember.
Sophy.
[Disconcerted.] Oh—ah, yes—but—
Quex.
For yourself, my dear Sophy.
Sophy.
[Falteringly.] Yes, but—but she made me do it.
Quex.
She made you do it! [Replacing the bottle, sternly.] And who, pray, will accept your word, upon this or any other point, against that of a lady of the position of the Duchess of Strood?
[He walks away from her and examines the books upon the writing-table. She sits on the settee, a blank expression upon her face.
Sophy.
[After a little consideration, wiping her brow with the back of her hand.] At any rate, my darling—Miss Muriel—would quickly see through a horrid trick of this sort.
Quex.
I bet you a dozen boxes of gloves to a case of your manicure instruments that she doesn’t.
Sophy.
I said to her to-day, at my place, that I was certain, if I could meet you alone in some quiet spot I could get a kiss out of you.
Quex.
[Under his breath, glaring at her.] You—! [Coolly.] Oh, now I understand. Yes, my dear, but Miss Eden is scarcely likely to believe that a modest girl would carry her devotion to this extent. Good heavens! why, your attire—! [She pulls her robe about her sharply.] And a woman who compromises herself, recollect, is never measured by her own character, always by her companion’s.
[She starts to her feet and paces the room, uttering cries of anger and indignation. He continues to interest himself in the books.
Sophy.
Oh! no, no! my darling wouldn’t think it of me! when I’ve abused you so continually! she surely couldn’t! oh! oh! [With flashing eyes.] Now, look here, my lord! you don’t really imagine that I’m going to stick in this room with you patiently all through the night, do you?
Quex.
How do you propose to avoid it?
Sophy.
[Pointing to the passage-door.] As true as I’m alive, if you don’t unlock that door, I—I—I’ll scream the place down!
Quex.
Why scream? [Pointing to the bell-rope which hangs beside the door.] There’s the bell. I daresay a servant or two is still up and about. You’d rouse the house quicker in that way.
Sophy.
Much obliged to you for the hint. I will—I will— [She goes to the bell-rope and grasps it; then she looks round and sees him calmly turning the leaves of a book he has selected. She stares at him, with sudden misgiving.] Ha, now we shall see how much your grand scheme amounts to!
Quex.
We shall. Ring the bell.
Sophy.
[Blankly.] What do you mean?
Quex.
Pooh, my dear! ring, ring, ring! or yell! You won’t be the first semi-circumspect young person who has got herself into a scrape and then endeavoured to save herself by raising a hullabaloo.
[She slowly takes her hand from the bell-rope and moves a step or two towards him.
Sophy.
Oh, that’s what you’d try to make out, is it? [He raises his eyes from his book and gives her a significant look. Leaning upon the arm of the settee, she says faintly.] You—you—!
Quex.
Yes, I tell you again, my dear, you have got yourself into a shocking mess. You’ve got me into a mess, and you’ve got yourself in a mess.
Sophy.
[Pulling herself up and advancing to him till she faces him.] You—you are an awful blackguard, my lord.
Quex.
Thank you, my dear. But you’re not far wrong—I was a blackguard till I met Miss Eden; and now, losing Miss Eden, perhaps I’m going to be a bigger blackguard than before. At the same time, you know, there’s not much to choose between us; for you’re a low spy, an impudent, bare-faced liar, a common kitchen-cat who wriggles into the best rooms, gets herself fondled, and then spits. [Passing her and throwing himself, full-length, upon the settee and settling himself to read.] Therefore I’ve no compunction in making you pay your share of this score, my dear Sophy—none whatever.
[She walks feebly to the passage-door and stands rattling the handle in an uncertain way. At last she breaks down and cries a little.
Sophy.
Oh! oh! oh! let me go, my lord. [He makes no response.] Do let me go—please! will you? [Approaching him and wiping her eyes upon the sleeve of her night-dress.] I hope your lordship will kindly let me go.
Quex.
[Shortly.] No.
Sophy.
[Steadying herself.] I don’t want to rouse the house at this time o’ night if I can help it—
Quex.
Don’t you?
Sophy.
Though I am certain I can make my story good anyway. But I’d rather your lordship let me out without the bother—[Piteously.] Do! [He turns a leaf of his book. She speaks defiantly.] Very well! very well! here I sit then! [Seating herself.] We’ll see who tires first, you or I! you or I! [Again snapping her fingers at him.] Bah! you horror! you—horror!
Quex.
[Raising himself on his elbow.] Will you have this sofa? [She gives him a fierce look.] A glass of your wine?
[She rises, with a stamp of the foot, and once more paces the room. He sips his wine and re-settles himself. She goes distractedly from one object to another, now leaning upon a chair, then against the pillar of the cheval-glass. Ultimately she comes to the bell-rope and fingers it again irresolutely.
Sophy.
[Faintly.] My lord—! [He remains silent. She releases the bell-rope.] Oh—h—h! [She pauses by the settee, looking down upon him as though she would strike him; then she walks away, and, seating herself in the chair by the bedside, drops her head upon the bed. The clock tinkles the half-hour. There is a short silence. Suddenly she rises, uttering a sharp cry, with her hand to her heart.] Oh! [panting] oh! oh!
Quex.
[Looking at her.] What now?
Sophy.
Valma!
Quex.
Valma?
Sophy.
Mr. Valma! oh, you know he is in the house!
Quex.
He! what’s he doing here?
Sophy.
The housekeeper gave him permission to sleep here. You know! [Stamping her foot.] Don’t you know?
Quex.
[Sitting up, alertly.] Ho! my jealous friend, the palmist. He is on the premises, hey?
Sophy.
[Distractedly.] Let me out! oh, yes, he is jealous of me; he is jealous of me, and we’ve had a few words about you as it is—
Quex.
Ah!
Sophy.
Oh, this would ruin me with Valma! oh, if your lordship hasn’t any feeling for me, don’t let Valma think that I’m a—that I’m—! [Going down on her knees before him.] Oh, I won’t tell on you! I promise I won’t, if you’ll only let me go! I will hold my tongue about you and the Duchess! I take my solemn oath I’ll hold my tongue!
Quex.
[Rising.] Ha! [Calmly.] No, my dear Sophy, I wasn’t aware that your fiancé is in the house. So the situation comes home to you a little more poignantly now, does it?
Sophy.
[Rising and going to the passage-door.] Unlock the door! where’s the key?
Quex.
Wait, wait, wait! And you’re going to keep your mouth shut after all, are you?
Sophy.
[Rattling the door-handle.] Yes, yes, Unlock it!
Quex.
Don’t be in such a hurry.
Sophy.
I give you my sacred word—
Quex.
[Thoughtfully.] Tsch, tsch, tsch! [Sharply, with a snap of the fingers.] Yes—by Jove—! [Pointing to the chair by the writing-table.] Sit down. [Imperatively.] Sit down. [She sits, wonderingly. He goes to the table, selects a plain sheet of paper and lays it before her. Then he hands her a pen.] Write as I tell you.
Sophy.
[Tremblingly.] What?
Quex.
[Pointing to the ink.] Ink. [Dictating.] “My lord.” [She writes; he walks about as he dictates.] “My lord. I am truly obliged to you—”
Sophy
Yes.
Quex.
“For your great liberality—”
Sophy.
[Turning.] Eh?
Quex.
[Sternly.] Go on. [She writes.] “For your great liberality, and in once more availing myself of it I quite understand—”
Sophy.
[Weakly.] Oh! [After writing.] Yes.
Quex.
“I quite understand that our friendship comes to an end.” [She rises and faces him.] Go on.
Sophy.
Our friendship!
Quex.
Yes.
Sophy.
Our—friendship!
Quex.
Yes.
Sophy.
I won’t.
Quex.
Very well.
Sophy.
How dare you try to make me write such a thing! [He turns from her and, book in hand, resumes his recumbent position on the sofa. She approaches him, falteringly.] What would you do with that, if I did write it?
Quex.
Simply hold it in my possession, as security for your silence, until after my marriage with Miss Eden; then return it to you.
Sophy.
Oh, won’t your lordship trust me?
Quex.
[Contemptuously.] Trust you! [After a pause, she returns to the writing-table and takes up her pen again.] Where were we?
Sophy.
[Feebly.] “I quite understand—”
Quex.
“That our friendship comes to an end.” [She writes. He rises and looks over her shoulder.] “While thanking you again for past and present favours—”
Sophy.
[Groaning as she writes.] Oh! oh!
Quex.
“I undertake not to approach or annoy you in the future—”
Sophy.
Oh!
Quex.
“Upon any pretext whatsoever. Yours respectfully—” [After watching the completion of the letter.] Date it vaguely—[with a wave of the hand] “Monday afternoon.” Blot it. [Moving away.] That’s right. [She rises, reading the letter with staring eyes. Then she comes to him and yields the letter, and he folds it neatly and puts it into his breast-pocket.] Thank you. I think I need detain you no longer.
Sophy.
[With a gasp.] Ah! stop a bit! no, I won’t!
Quex.
What’s the matter with you?
Sophy.
[Wildly.] Why, it’s like selling Muriel! Just to get myself out of this, I’m simply handing her over to you! I won’t do it! I won’t! [She rushes to the bell-rope and tugs at it again and again.] She sha’n’t marry you! she sha’n’t! I’ve said she sha’n’t, and she sha’n’t! [Leaving the bell-rope and facing him fiercely.] Oh, let your precious Duchess go scot-free! After all, what does it matter who the woman is you’ve been sporting with, so that Miss Muriel is kept from falling into your clutches! Yes, I’ll make short work of you, my lord. The ladies shall hear from my mouth of the lively half-hour I’ve spent with you, and how I’ve suddenly funked the consequences and raised a hullabaloo! Now, my lord! now then! now then!
[His astonishment has given way to admiration; he gazes at her as if spell-bound.
Quex.
[After a pause, during which she stands before him panting.] By God, you’re a fine plucked ’un! I’ve never known a better. [Resolutely.] No, my girl, I’m damned if you shall suffer! Quick! listen! pull yourself together!
Sophy.
[Hysterically.] Eh? eh?
Quex.
[Taking her letter from his pocket and thrusting it into her hand.] Here’s your letter! take it—I won’t have it. [Going quickly to the passage-door, unlocking it, and throwing the door open.] There you are!
Sophy.
[Sobbing.] Oh! oh!
[There is a hurried, irregular knocking at the door.
Quex.
[Gripping her arm.] Hush! [In a whisper.] Call out—wait!
Sophy.
[Raising her voice—unsteadily.] Wait—one moment!
Quex.
[In her ear, as he gives her the key of the door.] Say the Duchess is with Mrs. Jack; say she wants her letters brought to her in the morning; say anything—
Sophy.
Yes, yes. [Weeping and shaking and gasping, she goes to the door and unlocks it. He tip-toes into the bedroom and turns out the light there. She opens the door an inch or two.] Yes?
Two Voices.
[A mans and a woman’s.] What is it? what’s the matter?
Sophy.
[Steadying herself, with an effort.] Nothing. Only her Grace has gone to Mrs. Eden’s room and wishes her letters taken there in the morning most particularly—see?
The Voices.
What did you ring like that for? Thought the place was afire!
Sophy.
Oh, don’t make a fuss about nothing. You servants are an old-fashioned lot. Bong swor!
The Voices.
[Angrily.] Oh, good-night.
Sophy.
Ha, ha, ha!
[She closes the door and totters away from it, sobbing hysterically, as Quex comes to her.
Quex.
[Kindly.] Be off. Go to bed. Serve me how you please. Miss Fullgarney, upon my soul, I—I humbly beg your pardon.
Sophy.
[Passing him.] Oh! oh! oh! [Turning to him.] Oh, God bless you! You—you—you’re a gentleman! I’ll do what I can for you!
[She staggers to the passage-door and disappears, closing the door behind her. Then he extinguishes the remaining light, and cautiously lets himself out at the other door.
end of the third act.