[SOPHY carries the DUCHESS’S dress into the bedroom.

DUCHESS.

[Coming to MRS. EDEN.] Must you?  Good-night.

MRS. EDEN.

So nice of you to allow me this gossip.

DUCHESS.

Delighted.

[They kiss affectionately.

MRS. EDEN.

We go shopping together to-morrow, do we not?

DUCHESS.

Yes, yes.

MRS. EDEN.

[With exaggerated regret.] To-morrow! your last day here! misery! [At the door, finding she still has “Madame Plon” in her hand.] Oh! do you happen to be on this one?

DUCHESS.

Not that one.

MRS. EDEN.

I wonder whether you’d lend it to me?

DUCHESS.

Gladly.

MRS. EDEN.

As you say, there is something about these French writers—­

DUCHESS.

Style.

MRS. EDEN.

That’s it—­style. [Opening the door.] Ah! lights out.

DUCHESS.

Can you see?

MRS. EDEN.

[Going out.] There’s just a glimmer—­

[She disappears.

DUCHESS.

I’ll keep the door open till you have turned the corner.

[SOPHY comes back and stands watching the DUCHESS. The DUCHESS remains at the open door for a little, while, then kisses her hand to MRS. EDEN and closes the door.

SOPHY.

Shall I brush your Grace’s hair now?

DUCHESS.

[Going to the writing-table and taking up a book.] No.  I will do it.  The exertion of brushing my hair, I often find, encourages sleep.  I’ll put myself to bed.  Run away.  Don’t let me see or hear anything of you till the morning.  Eight o’clock. [She reclines upon the settee and opens her book. SOPHY, eyeing her keenly, is about to withdraw.] Oh—­Sophy! [SOPHY returns.] Do you—­believe in Mr. Valma?

SOPHY.

Believe in him, your Grace?

DUCHESS.

Believe that when he reads a woman’s hand he has really the power of divination—­the power he professes?

SOPHY.

Oh, yes.

DUCHESS.

[Looking away.] Then if he tells a woman that a great many men are deeply in love with her, you—­you—?

SOPHY.

I’m sure he knows what he’s talking about.

DUCHESS.

[With a little purr of contentment.] Ah! [Assuming indifference.] I heard recently of an instance of his having conjectured such a state of affairs from the lines of a woman’s hand. [Severely.] I could only hope that his surmise was an incorrect one.

SOPHY.

[Her eyes flashing scornfully.] You see, your Grace, if a woman is pretty, and Valma finds Venus’s girdle well marked in her palm; and if he concludes from other signs that she’s vain and light and loose; it isn’t much to suppose that there are a few horrid men licking their lips at the thought of her.