[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.

SOPHY.

[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.

MRS. EDEN.

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.