QUEX.

[Pausing.] Cruel—?

DUCHESS.

[With heaving bosom.] But there! if you deny me the possession of real feeling, why should you hesitate to rain blows on me?

QUEX.

[Softening, coming to her.] My dear Sidonia, I don’t—­I don’t mean to—­

DUCHESS.

[Rising, and grasping his hands.] Oh, Harry!

QUEX.

Tsch! please! [He releases himself and she sinks back upon the settee, her eyes closed.  He regards her uncomfortably for a moment; then, with some hesitation, he produces from his coat-tail pocket a small box covered with a pretty brocade, with which he toys uneasily.] You expressed a wish to leave here on Friday with a sensation of despair at your heart, Sidonia.  If your feeling about our parting is really a deep one, heaven knows I have no desire to make it more acute—­

DUCHESS.

[Partly opening her eyes.] What is in that box, Harry?

QUEX.

That is just what I was about to—­to—­[Lifting the lid and closing it.] These are the little souvenirs which have passed from you to me at odd times.

DUCHESS.

[With reviving interest.] Ah, yes.

QUEX.

I have had no other opportunity—­[Looking about him awkwardly for a place to deposit the box.] Will you—? shall I—? what the devil’s to become of ’em?

DUCHESS.

[Sitting upright and passing her hand over her back hair.] Were there a fire, we could crouch over it and watch the flames consume them one by one.

QUEX.

But there isn’t a fire.

DUCHESS.

[Rising, and taking the box from him.] Let us examine them.

QUEX.

No, no, no.

DUCHESS.

Yes, yes. [Opening the box and gazing into it.] Ah, poor little objects! dead, yet animate; silent, yet, oh, how eloquent!  Don’t go away—­[She overturns the contents of the box on to the table.  They stand opposite each other, looking down upon the litter.  She picks up a ring.] A ring—­[thoughtfully] turquoise and pearl. [Recollecting.] Stockholm!  You remember—­that night you and I sat watching the lights of the cafe on the Norrbro—!

QUEX.

[Hastily.] Yes, yes; you’ve recalled it already to-day.

DUCHESS.

[Picking up a scarf-pin.] A scarf-pin.  Copenhagen!  Ah, that pretty state-room of mine on the Irene!

QUEX.

Yes, yes, charming.

DUCHESS.

[Taking up a locket.] A locket—­my name in brilliants.  Genoa!  Look, it still contains my hair.

QUEX.

[Nodding.] H’m, um.

DUCHESS.

[Taking up a white shoe.] My shoe.  Where—?

QUEX.

[Shaking his head.] I don’t—­

DUCHESS.