Sophy.
[To Bastling, taking the soap from him—raising her voice.] Thank you—much obliged. [Transferring the soap to Miss Limbird and relieving her of the bowl of water.] For Captain Bastling, with a bottle of Fleur de Lilas.
[Miss Limbird returns to her desk; Sophy deposits the bowl of water upon the arm of the screen-chair; Bastling fetches his hat, and gives some directions to Miss Limbird.
Muriel.
[To Sophy, in a whisper.] Sophy, these extravagances on his part! I am the cause of them! he is not in the least well off!
Sophy.
Don't worry; it's all booked. Ha, ha! bless him, he'll never get his account from me! [Bastling, with a parting glance in the direction of Muriel and Sophy, goes out.] He's gone.
[Miss Limbird also goes out, carrying the bowl of bath-soap.
Muriel.
[With a sigh of relief.] Oh!
Sophy.
[Coming to her.] We're by ourselves for a minute. Give me a good hug. [Embracing her.] My dear! my darling! ha, ha, ha! you shall be the first to hear of it—I'm engaged.
Muriel.
Sophy! to whom?
Sophy.
To Mr. Valma, the great palmist.
Muriel.
What, the young man you've talked to me about—next door? [Kissing her.] I hope you are doing well for yourself, dear.
Sophy.
He's simply perfect! he's—! oh, how can I be such a brute, talking of my own happiness—! [In an altered tone.] Darling, Captain Bastling's regiment is going to be sent off to Hong-Kong.
Muriel.
[After a pause—commanding herself.] When?
In about a fortnight.
Muriel.
[Frigidly.] Is this what you had to tell me, from him?
Sophy.
Yes, and that he must see you to-morrow, alone. I'll arrange it. Can you manage to be here at twelve?
Muriel.
I daresay, somehow.
Sophy.
[Looking at her in surprise.] I thought you'd be more upset.
Muriel.
[Taking Sophy's hand.] The truth is, Sophy—I'm glad.
Sophy.
Glad!
Muriel.
Awfully glad the chance has come of putting an end to all this. Oh, I've been treating him shockingly!
Sophy.
Him?
Muriel.
Lord Quex!
[Impatiently.] Oh! pooh!
Muriel.
[Leaving Sophy.] Yes, after to-morrow he sha'n't find me looking a guilty fool whenever he speaks to me—by Jove, he sha'n't! I believe he guessed I haven't seen Moses in the Bulrushes!
Sophy.
But, dear, how do you know what Captain Bastling means to say to you to-morrow?
Muriel.
[Pausing in her walk.] To say?—good-bye.
Sophy.
Suppose he asks you to put him out of his misery—marry him directly, on the quiet?
Muriel.
[A little unsteadily.] Then I shall tell him finally—my word is given to Lord Quex.
Sophy.
[Coming to her again.] Given!—wrung out of you. And just for that you'll lose the chance of being happy—all your life—with the man you—
[She turns away, and sits, on the right of the circular table, blowing her nose.
[At Sophy's side, desperately.] But I tell you, Sophy, I love Lord Quex.
Sophy.
You may tell me.
Muriel.
I do—I mean, I'm getting to. [Defiantly.] At any rate, I am proud of him.
Sophy.
Proud!
Muriel.
Certainly—proud that he has mended his ways for my sake.
Sophy.
[Between tears and anger.] Mended his ways! with those eyes of his!
Muriel.
[Looking down upon Sophy, wonderingly.] His eyes? why, they are considered his best feature.
Sophy.
I never saw wickeder eyes. All my girls say the same.
Muriel.
[With rising indignation.] I am sure you have never detected Lord Quex looking at anybody in a way he should not.
Oh, I admit he has always behaved in a gentlemanly manner towards me and my girls.
Muriel.
[Haughtily. Towards you and your—! Sophy, pray remember Lord Quex's rank.
Sophy.
[In hot scorn.] His rank! ha! do you think his lordship has ever let that interfere—?
[She checks herself, finding Muriel staring at her.
Muriel.
[In horror.] Sophy!
Sophy.
[Discomposed—rising.] Er—if I'm to do anything to your nails—
[As Sophy is moving towards the manicure-table, Muriel intercepts her.
Muriel.
You are surely not suggesting that Lord Quex has ever descended—?
Sophy.
[Hastily.] No, no, no. [Brushing past Muriel and seating herself before the screen-chair.] Come; they'll all be here directly.
[Sitting in the screen-chair.] Sophy, you have heard some story—
Sophy.
[Examining Muriel's hands.] A little varnishing is all you need to-day.
Muriel.
You shall tell me!
Sophy.
[Proceeding with her work methodically.] It's nothing much; I'm sorry I—
Muriel.
[Imperatively.] Sophy!
Sophy.
[Reluctantly.] Oh, well—well, when I was at Mrs. Beaupoint's in Grosvenor Street—
Muriel.
Yes?
Sophy.
A Lady Pumphrey came to stay there with a goodish-looking maid—Edith Smith her name was—
Muriel.
Never mind her name!
Sophy.
And they'd lately met Lord Quex in a country house in Worcestershire. Well, he had kissed her—Smith admitted it.
Muriel.
Kissed whom—Lady Pumphrey?
Sophy.
Oh, of course he'd kissed Lady Pumphrey; but he kissed Smith afterwards, when he tipped her. She told me what he said.
Muriel.
What did he say?
Sophy.
He said, "There's a little something for yourself, my girl."
Muriel.
[Starting to her feet and walking away.] My heavens! a Maid! what next am I to hear—his blanchisseuse? [Sinking into a chair.] Oh! oh, dear!
Sophy.
[Turning in her chair to face Muriel.] It's one thing I always meant to keep to myself.
Muriel.
[Bitterly.] Still, I have promised to forgive him for so much already! And, after all, this occurred a long while ago.
Sophy.
[Thoughtfully.] Ye—e—es. I suppose if you did find him up to anything of that sort now, you'd—what would you do?
Muriel.
Do! [With all her heart.] Marry Napier Bastling.
Sophy.
[Rising—a mischievous light in her eyes.] Ah—! I almost wish it would happen!
Muriel.
Sophy!
Sophy.
[Leaning against the edge of the circular table, gripping Muriel's hand.] Just for your sake, darling. [In a low voice.] I almost wish I could come across him in some quiet little shady spot—
Muriel.
[Looking up at Sophy, horrified.] What!
Sophy.
In one of those greeny nooks you've told me of, at Fauncey Court. [Between her teeth.] If he ever tried to kiss me, and I told you of it, you'd take my word for it, wouldn't you?
Muriel.
[Starting to her feet.] For shame! how dare you let such an idea enter your head? you, a respectable girl, just engaged yourself—!
[With a quick look towards the window.] Oh, yes! hush! [Clapping her hand to her mouth.] Oh, what would Valma say if he knew I'd talked in this style!
[The door-gong sounds.
Muriel
Here they are.
Sophy.
[As they hastily return to their chairs.] Darling, I was only thinking of you and the poor Captain. [With another glance towards the window.] Phew! if my Valma knew!
[They resume their seats, and the manicuring is continued.
Miss Limbird enters, preceding Lord Quex and the Countess of Owbridge, Mrs. Jack Eden and Frayne. Miss Moon follows. Lady Owbridge is a very old lady in a mouse-coloured wig, with a pale, anxious face, watery eyes, and no eyebrows. Mrs. Eden is an ultra-fashionably-dressed woman of about thirty, shrill and maniéré.
Quex.
[To Lady Owbridge, who is upon his arm.] Yes, a curious phase of modern life. Many people come to these places for rest.
Lady Owbridge.
[Looking about her shrinkingly.] For rest, Henry?
Certainly. I know a woman—I knew a woman who used to declare that her sole repose during the Season was the half-hour with the manicurist.
Mrs. Eden.
How are you, Sophy?
Sophy.
How are you to-day, Mrs. Eden?
Mrs. Eden.
Lady Owbridge, this is Miss Fullgarney, whom you've heard about.
[Sophy rises, makes a bob, and sits again.
Lady Owbridge.
[Seated.] I hope you're quite well, my dear.
Sophy.
[Busy over Muriel's nails.] Thanks, my lady; I hope you're the same.
Mrs. Eden.
[Sitting.] What is your opinion of the picture, Lady Owbridge?
Lady Owbridge.
[Not hearing.] Eh?
Moses in the Bulrushes—what d'ye think of it?
Lady Owbridge.
[Tearfully.] They treat such subjects nowadays with too little reverence.
Frayne.
[Thoughtlessly.] Too much Pharaoh's daughter and too little Moses.
Quex.
[Frowning him down.] Phsst!
Mrs. Eden.
Certainly the handmaidens remind one of the young ladies in the ballet at the Empire.
Lady Owbridge.
The Empire?
Mrs. Eden.
[Checking herself.] Oh—!
Quex.
Popular place of entertainment.
Lady Owbridge.
Ah? The only place of that kind I have visited for some years is the Imperial Institute.
[Mrs. Eden rises, laughing to herself, and joins Sophy and Muriel. Frayne is now establishing cordial relations between himself and Miss Moon.
Mrs. Eden.
[To Sophy.] Well, Sophy, and how's your business getting along?
Lady Owbridge.
[To Quex, after ascertaining that Frayne is not near her.] Oh, Henry, I have asked Sir Chichester to drive down to us to-night, to dine.
Quex.
[Watching Frayne with apprehension.] Ah, yes, delightful. [Trying to gain Frayne's attention—warningly.] Phsst! phsst!
Lady Owbridge.
[Plucking at Quex's coat.] I feel that Sir Chichester is a very wholesome friend for you, Henry.
Quex.
Very. Phsst!
Lady Owbridge.
What is the name of the West African place?—Uumbos—Uumbos seems to have improved him vastly.
Quex.
[In a low voice.] Chichester!
And it is our wish that you should associate for the future only with grey-haired men.
[Miss Moon now withdraws, with Frayne at her heels.
Muriel.
[Rising and coming to Lady Owbridge.] I'm ready, dear Lady Owbridge. Look! you can see your face in them.
[Lady Owbridge rises; Muriel displays her nails. Lady Owbridge shakes her head gravely, while Quex bends over Muriel's hands gallantly.
Mrs. Eden.
[To Sophy.] My hands need trimming up desperately badly. That maid of mine is a fool at fingers.
Sophy.
Can't you stay now?
Mrs. Eden.
[With an impatient movement of the head towards Lady Owbridge.] Oh, lord, no. [Suddenly.] I say, I wish you'd run down to Richmond, to Fauncey Court, and do me. Could you?
Sophy.
[Innocently.] Oh, yes.
To-night, before dinner?
Sophy.
I think I can.
Mrs. Eden.
[To Lady Owbridge.] Lady Owbridge, Miss Fullgarney is coming down to Richmond this evening to manicure me. Do, do, do let her give your nails the fashionable cut. [Going to Quex and Muriel.] Everybody is wearing pointed nails this Season.
Lady Owbridge.
[Advancing to Sophy.] Ah, no, no. These practices are somewhat shocking to an old woman. [To Sophy.] But I don't blame you. [Laying her hand upon Sophy's arm, kindly.] So you're Miss Eden's foster-sister, eh?
Sophy.
I've that honour, my lady.
Lady Owbridge.
You look a little thin. Come down to Fauncey Court to-day as soon as your duties will release you. Spend as many hours there as you can.
Sophy.
Oh, my lady!
Lady Owbridge.
Run about the grounds—go wherever you please; and get the air into your lungs. [With gracious formality.] Remember, I invite you.
Muriel.
[Innocently.] How good of you, Lady Owbridge!
Sophy.
Thank you, my lady.
[Frayne returns—accompanied by Miss Moon, who carries a neat package—and settles an account with Miss Limbird at the desk.
Lady Owbridge.
[To Sophy.] You shall be well looked after.
[She shakes hands with Frayne.
Muriel.
[Kissing Sophy.] We shall meet by-and-by.
Lady Owbridge.
Muriel—young people—
[Muriel joins Lady Owbridge; they go out together.
Mrs. Eden.
[Nodding to Sophy.] This evening, Sophy.
Sophy.
[In a flutter of simple pleasure.] Yes, Mrs. Eden.
[Shaking hands with Frayne.] Till dinner—
[She goes out.
Quex.
[To Sophy.] Good-bye, Miss Fullgarney.
Sophy.
[Tripping across the room.] Good-day, my lord.
Quex.
[Joining Frayne.] Are you coming, Chick?
Frayne.
[Taking the parcel from Miss Moon, and turning to Quex, rather bitterly.] I say, that gal has made me buy something I don't want. They stick you here frightfully—
Quex.
Ha, ha, ha, ha!
[They go out together.
Sophy.
[Adjusting her hair at the mirror.] Come, girls! look alive! no more work for me to-day! I'm off home to change my frock. I've got an invite down to Richmond. My hat and coat!
[The door-gong sounds. Miss Moon disappears at the door in the partition. Miss Huddle enters.
Miss Hud-delle, please run next door, and ask Mr. Valma to step this way for a moment.
Miss Huddle.
He's on the leads, Miss Fullgarney, smoking a cigarette.
Sophy.
[Running across to the window.] Get my bag of tools ready! sharp! [Miss Huddle and Miss Limbird go out; Sophy opens the window and calls.] Valma! Valma! Valma!
[Miss Moon returns with Sophy's hat, coat, gloves and umbrella.
Miss Moon.
Your things, Miss Fullgarney.
Sophy.
[Taking them from her.] Send for a hansom—a smart one.
[Miss Moon runs out as Valma enters at the window.
Sophy.
[Breathlessly.] Valma—Valma, love! I've got an invite down to Richmond—Lady Owbridge—she's asked me specially! I'm going home to my place to smarten-up. Isn't it jolly? [In an outburst.] Oh, love, you might give-up for to-day, and take me down!
May I?
Sophy.
May you! Your hat—get your hat! you'll find me outside in a cab.
[He hurries away.
Miss Limbird, carrying a leather bag, enters, followed by Miss Claridge and Miss Huddle.
Sophy.
[As she, with the aid of her girls, pins on her hat and scrambles into her coat.] You know, girls, many a silly person's head would be turned at being asked to a place like Fauncey Court—as a guest, bear in mind. But there, the houses I've been in!—it's nothing to me. Still, specially invited by the Countess of Owbridge herself—! [Putting her feet in turn upon a chair and hitching up her stockings.] I shall just make rather a favour of manicuring Mrs. Jack. One doesn't go visiting to cut Mrs. Jack's claws. Gloves! Thank goodness, the evenings are long! they say it's simply heavenly at Fauncey Court—simply heaven— [She breaks off abruptly, staring straight before her. Under her breath.] Oh—! Fauncey Court—Lord Quex—!
Miss Claridge.
What's the matter, Miss Fullgarney.
Sophy.
N—n—nothing.
Miss Moon.
[Entering.] Cab, Miss Fullgarney!
[In an altered voice.] Bag. [She takes her bag from Miss Limbird and walks away, rather slowly, with her head down. Quietly, without turning.] See you in the morning, girls.
The Four Girls.
Good afternoon, Miss Fullgarney.
[Sophy goes out.
end of the first act.
THE SECOND ACT
The scene represents a portion of an English garden laid out in Italian fashion. At the extreme back—upon ground slightly raised—two dense cypress-hedges, about sixteen feet high, form an alley running from right to left. In the centre of the hedge which is nearer the spectator there is an opening, and at this opening are three or four steps connecting the higher with the lower level. Beyond the alley nothing is seen but the sky and some tree-tops. In advance is an enclosure formed by a dwarf cypress-hedge, about four feet in height, also broken in the centre by an opening, and running off right and left at a sharp angle. On the outside of the dwarf hedge is a walk; and beyond, on the right and left, are trees. Within the enclosure, on the left, is a small fountain; facing the fountain, on the right, a piece of old, broken sculpture. Other bits of antique sculpture are placed in different parts of the garden. In the foreground, on the right towards the centre, stands a stone bench, on the left of which is a table upon which are the remains of "afternoon tea," with a garden chair. A similar stone bench stands opposite.
The light is that of a very fine evening.
[Lady Owbridge is in the garden-chair, asleep, an open book in her lap. Quex and Muriel stand, talking together, by the fountain. On the right-hand stone bench the Duchess of Strood and Mrs. Eden are seated. The Duchess is a daintily beautiful doll of about seven-and-thirty—a poseuse, outwardly dignified and stately when upon her guard, really a frail, shallow little creature full of extravagant sentimentality. Until Lady Owbridge wakes, the conversation is carried on in subdued tones.
Mrs. Eden.
[Indicating Muriel and Quex.] They make a fascinating couple, don't they, Duchess?
Duchess.
[With placid melancholy.] To see two people on the threshold of wedlock is always painfully interesting.
Mrs. Eden.
I am quite triumphant about it. It is such a delightful engagement, now that the horrid difficulties are smoothed away.
Duchess.
Yes, you were telling me of some sad obstacles—
Mrs. Eden.
I nearly perished of them! [Very confidentially.] There's no doubt, you know, that his past has been exceptionally naughty.
Duchess.
Really? Ah! don't be surprised that I am not more deeply shocked. In these surroundings it is hard to realise that every aspect of life is not as lovely as—[pointing to the foliage] the tones of those exquisite, deep greens, for example.
Mrs. Eden.
However, the dear thing is going to be so good in the future. [Turning to the Duchess.] I keep forgetting—Lord Quex is a very old friend of yours?
Duchess.
[Serenely.] An acquaintance of many years' standing. But since his Grace has been an invalid we have lived much abroad, or in seclusion, and gossip has not reached us. Alas, you find me a ready subject à désillusionner! [Rising.] We are in the sun. Shall we walk?
Mrs. Eden.
[Sympathetically, as they walk.] Is his Grace still very unwell?
Duchess.
[Smiling sadly upon Mrs. Eden.] He is still over seventy.
[They wander away, through the trees, as Quex and Muriel leave the fountain.
[With tender playfulness, first glancing at the sleeping Lady Owbridge.] And so all these good things are to befall me after to-morrow?
Muriel.
[In a low voice.] After to-morrow.
Quex.
When I approach, I shall no longer see you skim away into the far vista of these alleys, or shrink back into the shadows of the corridors—[prosaically] after to-morrow.
Muriel.
No—not after to-morrow.
Quex.
In place of a cold word, a chilling phrase, a warm one—after to-morrow.
Muriel.
I am going to try.
Quex.
If I touch your hand, you'll not slip it behind your back in a hurry [touching her hand]—?
Muriel.
[Withdrawing it.] Not after to-morrow.
[She sits; he stands behind the stone bench, leaning over the back of it.
But why, may I ask, is this bliss reserved till after to-morrow?
Muriel.
I had rather you did not ask me, Quex.
Quex.
No? I see, I am a day too soon in putting even that little question.
Muriel.
Ah, I'll tell you this—I am going to turn over a new leaf, after to-morrow.
Quex.
You! your pages are all milk-white. What can you detect upon one of them to induce you to turn it?
Muriel.
[Gazing into space.] I—I've been scribbling there—scrawling—drawing pictures—
Quex.
Pictures—of what?
Muriel.
You shall know, perhaps, some day.
Quex.
After to-morrow?
Yes, Quex, but—after many to-morrows.
[Two Men-Servants—an old man and a young one—descend the steps and proceed to remove the tea-things.
Lady Owbridge.
[Waking.] Eh—? [Seeing Muriel and Quex.] Ah, my dears—! I am reading such an absorbing book.
Muriel.
[By her side, taking the book.] May I—?
Lady Owbridge.
You should study the Dean of St. Olpherts' sermons—and you, Henry.
Quex.
[Taking the book from Muriel and turning its pages.] Yes, I must—I must—
Lady Owbridge.
By the way, has anything been seen of that nice young manicure girl, Miss Sophy—something—?
Muriel.
Sophy Fullgarney—she arrived at about half-past four, and I asked Mrs. Gregory to show her over the house. I thought you would not object.
Object! it pleases me.
Muriel.
She is roving about the grounds now.
Lady Owbridge.
An exceedingly prepossessing young woman, of her class.
[The Servants have gone up the steps, carrying the tea-things.
The Elder Servant.
[Looking down the alley towards the left.] I see the young person, my lady.
Lady Owbridge.
I'll speak to her, Bristow.
[The Elder Servant goes off towards the left; the younger one, bearing the tray, to the right. The Duchess and Mrs. Eden return, above the low cypress-hedge; Quex meets them.
Muriel.
I would not have left her, but the young man she is engaged to brought her down, and I took it upon myself to give him permission to remain.
Lady Owbridge.
Oh, is Miss Fullgarney engaged?
To Mr. Valma, the palmist.
Mrs. Eden.
[Approaching.] Valma, the palmist!
Lady Owbridge.
What is a palmist, pray?
Muriel.
He reads your past and your future in the lines of your hands. It's his profession, dear Lady Owbridge.
Mrs. Eden.
Oh, do let us have him into the drawing-room after dinner! I hear he is simply charming.
Lady Owbridge.
Charming! [Rising.] What are our ladies coming to! Dear, dear me! in my day such follies and superstitions were entirely restricted to the kitchen.
[Muriel joins the Duchess. Quex is dutifully looking into the book of sermons. The servant returns, followed by Sophy, and then retires; Sophy comes forward, beamingly. She is prettily dressed, but in sober colours.
Sophy.
[To Lady Owbridge.] Here I am, my lady. I'm having such a good time!
That's right.
Sophy.
Oh, this garden! they may well call it heavenly.
Lady Owbridge.
They ought not to call it that, my dear. But it is indeed full of earthly solace.
Sophy.
It must be. And what a place for a bicycle!
Muriel.
[Reprovingly.] Bicycles are not allowed to enter these grounds, Sophy.
Sophy.
[Sobered.] Oh—!
Lady Owbridge.
Miss Eden tells me you are accompanied by the young man to whom you are engaged to be married.
Sophy.
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.
[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.
[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.
[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?
[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?
[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.
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!
[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!
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.
[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?
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!
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.