QUEX.

[Grinding his teeth.] You did! [Involuntarily making a threatening movement towards her.] You did, you—!

SOPHY.

[Cowering over the settee.] Oh!

QUEX.

[Recovering himself.] Oh, you did, did you?

SOPHY.

[Facing him defiantly.] Yes, I did.

QUEX.

[Coolly.] Well? and what then?  You listen to a conversation carried on in an open spot, from which your mischievous ears manage to detach the phrase “to-night.”  My explanation, if I am called upon to make one, will be absurdly simple.

SOPHY.

[Derisively.] Ha, ha! will it! ha, ha, ha!  I daresay!

QUEX.

Yes.  You see, I promised her Grace that I would send a book to her room to-night—­to-night.  My man had gone to bed; I brought it myself, intending to hand it to Mrs. Watson, her maid.  In the meantime, the Duchess had joined Mrs. Eden and I found you here.

SOPHY.

You couldn’t tell such an abominable lie!

QUEX.

[Imperturbably.] I found you here.  And then—­what is the obvious sequel to the story? [Shrugging his shoulders.] I’m a wicked man, Sophy, and you’re an undeniably pretty girl—­and the devil dared me.

SOPHY.

Oh—!

QUEX.

[Taking up the bottle of champagne.] And an excellent banquet you had chanced to provide for the occasion. [Reading the label.] “Felix Poubelle, Carte d’Or.”  It will appear, I am afraid, that you had been preparing for the entertainment of some amorous footman.

SOPHY.

[Snapping her fingers at him.] Puh! bah!  Oh, the whole house shall know that that is your Duchess’s champagne.

QUEX.

Excuse me—­Mr. Brewster, the butler, will disprove that tale.  You wheedled this out of him on your own account, remember.

SOPHY.

[Disconcerted.] Oh—­ah, yes—­but—­

QUEX.

For yourself, my dear Sophy.

SOPHY.

[Falteringly.] Yes, but—­but she made me do it.

QUEX.

She made you do it! [Replacing the bottle, sternly.] And who, pray, will accept your word, upon this or any other point, against that of a lady of the position of the Duchess of Strood?

[He walks away from her and examines the books upon the writing-table.  She sits on the settee, a blank expression upon her face.

SOPHY.

[After a little consideration, wiping her brow with the back of her hand.] At any rate, my darling—­Miss Muriel—­would quickly see through a horrid trick of this sort.

QUEX.

I bet you a dozen boxes of gloves to a case of your manicure instruments that she doesn’t.

SOPHY.

I said to her to-day, at my place, that I was certain, if I could meet you alone in some quiet spot I could get a kiss out of you.