DUCHESS.

“Felix 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?

QUEX.

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?

QUEX.

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!

DUCHESS.

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!