[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.