[She inclines her head.  He pours wine into the glasses; she takes the champagne glass, he the tumbler.

DUCHESS.

[Sentimentally.] Felix Poubelle, Carte d’Or! [Looking at him over the brim of her glass.] Eh bien! au joyeux passe!

QUEX.

Non, non—­a un avenir meilleur!

DUCHESS.

Que vous etes prosaique! soit! [They drink.  She sits, with a sigh of dissatisfaction.] Ah!

QUEX.

[Leaning against the table, drinking his wine.] Wonderful wine—­really exceptional. [Struck by a thought, turning to her.] Forgive me—­you must have found some difficulty in introducing Monsieur Felix Poubelle into this hallowed apartment.

DUCHESS.

No. [Sipping her wine.] My maid thinks it is by my doctor’s orders.

QUEX.

Your maid, yes—­[sipping his wine; then sitting upon the settee, glass in hand] but my poor aunt must be highly scandalised.

DUCHESS.

[Her glass at her lips.] Dear Lady Owbridge will not know.  I told the girl to coax it out of the butler, as if it were for herself.  These women have a way of doing such things.

QUEX.

[Laughing rather sadly.] Ha, ha, ha! who is beyond temptation?  Not even old Bristow—­sixty if he’s a day.

DUCHESS.

[Shrugging her shoulders.] Sixty or sixteen—­when a girl is fascinating—­

QUEX.

Fascinating! your woman, Watson!

DUCHESS.

No, no—­Watson has left me for a few hours.  I am speaking of Sophy.

[There is a brief silence. QUEX, surprised in the act of drinking, lowers his glass slowly.

QUEX.

[In a queer voice.] Sophy?

DUCHESS.

Miss Fullgarney, the manicurist.  She was so good as to offer to take
Watson’s place for to-night.

QUEX.

[Looking steadily before him.] Oh?

[There is another pause.  The DUCHESS puts down her glass and, with her foot, pushes the footstool towards QUEX.

DUCHESS.

[Sliding from her chair on to the footstool.] Oh, Harry, the bitterness of this final meeting! the dull agony of it!

[He gets rid of his tumbler and touches her arm.

QUEX.

[Quietly.] Duchess—­

DUCHESS.

[Surprised.] Eh?

QUEX.

I am sorry to alarm you, but this girl—­Miss Eden’s foster-sister—­

DUCHESS.

What about her?

QUEX.

She’s a cat.

DUCHESS.

Cat!

QUEX.

[Gathering his ideas as he proceeds.] A common hussy, not above playing tricks—­spying—­

DUCHESS.

Spying!

QUEX.

I caught her behind the hedge this evening, in the Italian garden, after you and I had been talking together.