Mentone!

QUEX.

Of course—­Mentone.

DUCHESS.

[Discovering some object in the shoe.] What is this? [Producing a garter of pale-blue silk, with a diamond buckle.] A—­a—­where—? ah, yes. [Replacing the things in the box.] Oh, the poor little objects! dead, yet animate; silent, yet, oh, how eloquent!

[She passes him and slips the box into the drawer of the writing-table.  The clock strikes a quarter to twelve.

QUEX.

[Glancing at the clock.] By Jove, it’s late!  I—­I’ll leave you now, Sidonia.

DUCHESS.

[Turning.] No, no—­not yet, Harry. [Coming to the table and taking up the box of cigarettes.] Why, you forget—­[offering him the box] Argyropulos!

QUEX.

[Accepting a cigarette reluctantly.] Thanks. [Again looking at the clock.] Well—­three minutes.

DUCHESS.

[Taking a cigarette, replacing the box, and holding the spirit lamp while he lights his cigarette from it.] You were not always so impatient. [In lighting his cigarette, the flame of the lamp is blown out.] Ah! [After replacing the lamp, she lights her cigarette from his, gazing into his eyes.] Argyropulos. [Dreamily.] Once more—­Argyropulos.

QUEX.

Yes, yes—­capital tobacco.

[He gets away from her.

DUCHESS.

And look! you see, Harry?

QUEX.

[Turning.] Eh?

DUCHESS.

[Pointing to the bottle of champagne.] “Felix Poubelle, Carte d’Or”! [Taking up the scissors which she has left upon the table.] The wire is already severed.

[She commences to cut the string.  He comes to her.

QUEX.

[Taking the scissors from her.] Oh, permit me.

[Always intent upon avoiding her, he moves away, the bottle in his hand, cutting the string.

DUCHESS.

[Following him.] Is it likely to make a loud report?

QUEX.

Hardly.

DUCHESS.

[Frowning censoriously.] One doesn’t want a sound of that sort to ring through the corridors. [Looking about her impatiently.] These formal, frigid rooms!

[She runs lightly into the bedroom, snatches a pillow from the bed, and returns to him.

QUEX.

[His hand upon the cork.] What is that for?

DUCHESS.

[Enveloping his hand and the bottle in the pillow—­calmly.] It is wiser to muffle it.

[He pauses, looking at her fixedly.

QUEX.

[In a low, grave voice.] Dolly—­

DUCHESS.

Dolly! [Closing her eyes.] You give me my pet name again!

QUEX.

Ah, Dolly, if only there wasn’t quite so much in one’s life—­to muffle! [He pulls the cork.  She tosses the pillow on to the settee, a little irritably.] May I—?