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.

MURIEL.

[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.

SOPHY.

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.

MURIEL.

[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—­