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.

QUEX.

[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—­