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.
[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?
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.
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?
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.
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!
[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.
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.
[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!
[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?
[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!
"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?
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?
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!
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.
[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—
[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!
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.
[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—
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?
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?
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—!
[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.
[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?
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.
[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.
[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?
[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.
[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.
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.
[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.
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?