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.

DUCHESS.

[Who has been occupied in observing QUEX.] I’ll follow you, dear Lady Owbridge.

[LADY OWBRIDGE moves away and is joined by MRS. EDEN.

MRS. EDEN.

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

SOPHY.

All right, Mrs. Eden.

[LADY OWBRIDGE and MRS. EDEN disappear.

MURIEL.

[Crossing to SOPHY.] Wouldn’t you like to walk to the gates to meet Mr. Valma?

SOPHY.

Thanks, dear, I think I would.

MURIEL.

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

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

QUEX.

I beg your pardon, Duchess—­I didn’t see you.

DUCHESS.

[In a whisper.] Harry—­

QUEX.

[Startled.] Eh?

DUCHESS.

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

QUEX.

May I ask—­the reason?

DUCHESS.

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