[All the bravery has dropped from MAGGIE’s face.]

Maggie.  I didn’t see him, but I heard him.  She is with him.  I think they are coming here.

[The Comtesse is suddenly kind again.]

Comtesse.  Sybil?  Shall I get rid of her?

Maggie.  No, I want her to be here, too.  Now I shall know.

[The Comtesse twists the little thing round.]

Comtesse.  Know what?

Maggie.  As soon as I look into his face I shall know.

[A delicious scent ushers in the fair Sybil, who is as sweet as a milking stool.  She greets Mrs. Shand with some alarm.]

Maggie.  How do you do, Lady Sybil?  How pretty you look in that frock. [Sybil rustles uncomfortably.] You are a feast to the eye.

Sybil.  Please, I wish you would not.

[Shall we describe SYBIL’S frock, in which she looks like a great strawberry that knows it ought to be plucked; or would it be easier to watch the coming of John?  Let us watch John.]

John.  You, Maggie!  You never wrote that you were coming.

[No, let us watch Maggie.  As soon as she looked into his face she was to know something of importance.]

Maggie [not dissatisfied with what she sees].  No, John, it’s a surprise visit.  I just ran down to say good-bye.

[At this his face falls, which does not seem to pain her.]

Sybil [foreseeing another horrible Scotch scene].  To say good-bye?

Comtesse [thrilling with expectation].  To whom, Maggie?

Sybil [deserted by the impediment, which is probably playing with rough boys in the Lovers’ Lane].  Auntie, do leave us, won’t you?

Comtesse.  Not I. It is becoming far too interesting.

Maggie.  I suppose there’s no reason the Comtesse shouldn’t be told, as she will know so soon at any rate?

John.  That’s so. [Sybil sees with discomfort that he is to be practical also.]

Maggie.  It’s so simple.  You see, Comtesse, John and Lady Sybil have fallen in love with one another, and they are to go off as soon as the meeting at Leeds has taken place.

[The COMTESSE’s breast is too suddenly introduced to Caledonia and its varied charms.]

Comtesse.  Mon Dieu!

Maggie.  I think that’s putting it correctly, John.

John.  In a sense.  But I’m not to attend the meeting at Leeds.  My speech doesn’t find favour. [With a strange humility] There’s something wrong with it.

Comtesse.  I never expected to hear you say that, Mr. Shand.

John [wondering also].  I never expected it myself.  I meant to make it the speech of my career.  But somehow my hand seems to have lost its cunning.

Comtesse.  And you don’t know how?