BASTLING.

[Puzzled.] Not much in thanks?

SOPHY.

[Turning away, pouting.] I think not.

BASTLING.

[Smiling.] Oh, I know I owe a tremendous deal to the pretty manicurist, and I don’t intend to forget it.  Just now I’m rather hard-up, [glancing towards the window] but I shall be in funds before long—­

SOPHY.

[Turning to him with genuine indignation.] Oh!

BASTLING.

What do you want, then?

SOPHY.

[After a moment’s hesitation, sidling up to him.] Not money.

BASTLING.

Not?

SOPHY.

A little more than plain thanks though.

BASTLING.

[Looking into her eyes, laughing softly.] Ha, ha, ha!

SOPHY.

[Slyly.] Ha, ha, ha!

BASTLING.

Thanks—­differently expressed—? [She plays with the lapel of his coat and giggles.  He takes her chin in his hand.] Ha, ha, ha!  Sophy!

SOPHY.

Ha, ha!

[MURIEL appears at the open window and enters the room noiselessly.  Seeing BASTLING and SOPHY together, she halts in surprise.

BASTLING.

[Whose back is to the window.] I say—­mind, no tales.

SOPHY.

[Looking at MURIEL steadily over BASTLING’S shoulder.] Likely I’d split on you, isn’t it?

BASTLING.

Honour bright?

SOPHY.

Oh, if you’ve any doubt—­

[He raises her face to his and kisses her upon the lips warmly and lingeringly.  She goes back a step or two, still gazing fixedly at MURIEL.

BASTLING.

Eh—?

[Following the direction of her eyes, he turns and encounters MURIEL. The three stand for a moment or two without movement.

BASTLING.

[After the pause, speaking in a low voice, his eyes avoiding MURIEL’S.] Well—­ha!—­I suppose every man makes a big mistake at least once in his life.  I’ve made mine.  At the same time, I—­I—­[hurriedly] oh, I’ll write.

[With a slight, quick bow to MURIEL, he wheels round sharply and goes out.

SOPHY.

[Wiping his kiss from her lips.] The wretch! the wretch!

[The door-gong sounds.

MURIEL.

[Covering her eyes with her hand and uttering a low moan.] Oh—!

SOPHY.

[Hanging her head.] You see, darling, yesterday at Fauncey Court, I—­I tried it on with Lord Quex, and he behaved like a gentleman.  So the notion struck me that I’d treat the young man in the same way, just to see what he was made of, and—­well, I’m glad you came in.  You might never have believed me.

MURIEL.

[In a hard voice.] The shirt-stud—­the stuff I wrote—­I left them with you—­