DUCHESS.

[Shocked.] My good girl! what curious expressions you make use of! [Resuming her reading.] That’s all.

[SOPHY goes to the door and opens it.

SOPHY.

I wish your Grace good-night.

DUCHESS.

[Raising her head for a moment.] Good-night.  You are not taking your robe.

[SOPHY looks at the robe and hesitates; in the end she gathers it up uneasily.

SOPHY.

I—­I am very much obliged to your Grace—­

DUCHESS.

Yes, you have thanked me enough.  Turn out the lamp in that passage.

SOPHY.

Certainly, your Grace.

[SOPHY disappears, shutting the door after her.  The DUCHESS remains quite still for a moment, then rises promptly, replaces her book, and—­seating herself at the dressing-table—­puts her hair in order.  This done, she takes up the hand-mirror and smiles, frowns, and looks caressingly at herself.  Then she lays the hand-mirror aside, blows out the candles upon the dressing-table, and poses before the cheval-glass.  Ultimately, completely assured as to her appearance, she cautiously opens the door at which SOPHY has departed, and, going a few steps along the passage, listens with strained ears.  The passage is now in darkness.  Apparently satisfied, the DUCHESS returns, and, closing the door gently, turns the key in the lock.  Her next proceeding is to attempt to tear one of the ribbons from her tea-gown.  Failing in this, she detaches it with the aid of a pair of scissors, and, opening the door leading from the corridor, ties the ribbon to the outer door-handle.  Whereupon she closes the door and walks about the room contentedly.  Suddenly she pauses, and, going to the cabinet, produces a small tray on which are a bottle of champagne and a champagne glass.  Placing the tray on the circular table, she regards the single glass thoughtfully.  Then, as if struck by an idea, she disappears into the bedroom.  After a brief interval, the door opens softly and QUEX enters, carrying a lighted wax match.  Being in, he shuts the door silently and looks about the room.  Hearing the DUCHESS in the adjoining apartment, he frowns and blows out the match.  Coming to the circular table, he contemplates the preparation for his reception with distaste; then, flinging the match into the ash-tray, he sits, with a set, determined look upon his face.  After another short pause, the DUCHESS returns, polishing a tumbler with a cambric handkerchief. QUEX rises.

DUCHESS.

[Under her breath.] Ah! [He bows stiffly.  She places the tumbler on the tray, tosses the handkerchief aside, and—­first motioning him to stand away from the line of the door—­opens the door, removes the ribbon from the handle, closes and locks it.  Then she turns to him with a long-drawn sigh.] Ah—­h—­h!