Middle Ages, in my imagination. I live in every age in which Love was
not a cool, level emotion, but a fierce, all-conquering flame--a flame
that grew in the heart of a woman, that of a sudden spread through her
whole organism, that lit up her eyes with a light more refulgent than
the light of sun or moon! [_Laying her hand upon his arm._] Oh, oh, this
poor, thin, modern sentiment miscalled Love--!
QUEX.
[_Edging away._] Sssh! pray be careful!
DUCHESS.
Ah, yes. But, dear Harry, I cannot endure the ordeal any longer.
QUEX.
The ordeal?
DUCHESS.
The prolonged discomfort, to which I have subjected myself, of watching
your wooing of Miss Eden. I must go.
QUEX.
[_With ill-concealed relief._] Go! leave us?
DUCHESS.
I recognise how fitting it is that you should bring your wild, irregular
career to a close; but after to-morrow I shall cease to be a spectator
of these preliminaries.
QUEX.
[_His eyes sparkling._] After to-morrow!
DUCHESS.
Yes, I rejoin poor dear Strood on Friday. True, he has four nurses--he
always had four nurses, if you remember?
QUEX.
[_Sympathetically._] Three or four.
DUCHESS.
But then, nurses are but nurses. [_Nobly._] I must not forget that I am
a wife, Harry.
QUEX.
No, no--you mustn't forget that.
DUCHESS.
[_Gazing into his eyes._] And so, between you and me, [_placing her
hands upon his shoulders_] it is over.
QUEX.
[_Promptly._] Over.
DUCHESS.
Finally, irrevocably over.
QUEX.
[_Freeing himself._] Absolutely over. [_Taking her hand and bowing over
it solemnly._] Done with.
[_He walks away._
DUCHESS.
[_Moving slowly._] That is--almost over.
QUEX.
[_Turning sharply._] Almost?
DUCHESS.
We have yet to say good-bye, you know.
QUEX.
[_Returning to her, apprehensively._] We--we have said good-bye.
DUCHESS.
Ah, no, no!
QUEX.
[_Again bowing over her hand--with simulated feeling._] Good-bye.
DUCHESS.
[_Looking round._] What! _here_?
QUEX.
[_Humouring her._] This romantic old garden! [_pointing to the
statuary_] these silent witnesses--beholders, it is likely, of many
similar scenes! the--the--setting sun! Could any situation be more
appropriate?
DUCHESS.
But we are liable to be interrupted at any moment. The joint romance of
our lives, Harry, ought not to end with a curt word and formal
hand-shake in an exposed spot of this kind. [_Sitting in the garden
chair._] Oh, it cannot, must not, end so!
QUEX.
[_Eyeing her uneasily._] Frankly, I see nothing else for it.
DUCHESS.
I can't credit it. Why, what was the second reason for my coming here?
QUEX.
Second reason?
DUCHESS.
That our parting might be in keeping with our great attachment!
QUEX.
Impossible.
DUCHESS.
Impracticable?
QUEX.
In every way, impossible.
DUCHESS.
[_Taking his hand._] Oh, don't say that, dear Harry! Ah, the auguries
tell me that what I ask will be.
QUEX.
[_Omitting, in his anxiety, to withdraw his hand._] The auguries?
DUCHESS.
Fate--coincidence--call it what you please--foreshadows one more meeting
between us.
QUEX.
Coincidence?
DUCHESS.
[_Intensely, in a low voice._] Harry, do you remember a particular
evening at Stockholm?
QUEX.
[_Hazily._] Stockholm?
DUCHESS.
That evening upon which we discovered how much our society meant to each
other!
QUEX.
[_Vaguely, while he hastily recovers possession of his hand._] At
Stockholm was it--?
DUCHESS.
You were sailing with us in the Baltic--you must recollect? Our yacht
had put in at Stockholm; we had come to the Grand Hotel. Strood had
retired, and you and I were sitting out upon the balcony watching the
lights of the café on the Norrbro and the tiny steamboats that stole to
and fro across the harbour. Surely you recollect?
QUEX.
Yes, yes, of course.
DUCHESS.
Well, do you remember the brand of the champagne you sipped while you
and I sat smoking?
QUEX.
Good lord, no!
DUCHESS.
"Félix Poubelle, Carte d'Or." You remarked that it was a brand unknown
to you. Have you ever met it since, Harry?
QUEX.
Not that I--
DUCHESS.
Nor I till last night, at dinner. [_Impressively._] It is in this very
house.
QUEX.
[_With a slight shrug of the shoulders._] Extremely probable.
DUCHESS.
And do you remember how I was clad, that evening at Stockholm?
QUEX.
I am afraid I don't.
DUCHESS.
_Couleur de rose garnie de vert_. I have just such another garment with
me.
QUEX.
Really?
DUCHESS.
Do you remember in what month we were at Stockholm?
QUEX.
No.
DUCHESS.
June--this month. Nor the day of the week?
QUEX.
It must be ten years ago!
DUCHESS.
Wednesday. There stands the record in my diary.
QUEX.
Diary! good heavens, you are not so indiscreet--!
DUCHESS.
No, no--only the words, "warm evening." Yes, it was upon a Wednesday.
What is to-day?
QUEX.
Wednesday.
DUCHESS.
[_Rising._] Harry, I want to see you sipping that brand of champagne
once more, while you and I sit facing one another, silently, dreamily
smoking Argyropulos.
QUEX.
[_Negatively_.] Duchess--
DUCHESS.
To end as we began! you have not the heart to refuse?
QUEX.
I--
DUCHESS.
You do refuse?
QUEX.
I do.
[_She passes him, and again sinks upon the bench._
DUCHESS.
[_Her back towards him, her shoulders heaving._] Oh! oh!
QUEX.
I--I am profoundly sorry to be obliged to speak to you in this fashion.
DUCHESS.
Oh, then I cannot go on Friday!
QUEX.
Not!
DUCHESS.
No! no! no!
QUEX.
Believe me, it would be better for you, for me, for everybody--
DUCHESS.
I cannot! [_Producing a diminutive lace handkerchief._] In the first
shock of the news of your engagement--for it was a shock--one thought
consoled me; throughout the time that has elapsed since then I have fed
upon this same thought--there will be a parting in keeping with our
great attachment! And now, you would rob me even of that!
QUEX.
But--but--but--a solemn, deliberate leave-taking! the ceremony, of all
others, to be carefully avoided!
DUCHESS.
Not by me, Harry--not by me. I wish to carry, in my breast, from this
house the numb despair of a piteous climax. I cannot drive away smugly
from these gates with the simple feelings of a woman who has been paying
a mere visit--I cannot!
QUEX.
My dear Sidonia--!
DUCHESS.
[_Decidedly._] I say I cannot!
QUEX.
[_To himself, with a little groan._] Oh! phew!
[_He walks to and fro impatiently, reflecting._ SOPHY, _without her hat,
comes quickly down the steps as if making for the table. Seeing_ QUEX
_and the_ DUCHESS, _she draws back, inquisitively._
QUEX.
[_By the_ DUCHESS'S _side again, helplessly._] Well, I--ha!--I--
DUCHESS.
[_Rising eagerly, laying a hand upon his arm._] You _will_?
[SOPHY _stoops down behind the dwarf cypress-hedge._
QUEX.
You are certain--certain that this would effectually remove the
obstacle to your rejoining--[_with a wave of the hand_] on Friday?
DUCHESS.
Why, do you think I would risk an anticlimax? [_In an intense whisper._]
To-night! [_Louder._] To-night? [_He hesitates a little longer--then
bows in assent, stiffly and coldly. She gives an ardent sigh._] Ah--!
[_He retreats a step or two. She draws herself up with dignity._]
To-night then--
[_She turns from him and glides away through the trees. He stands for a
moment, a frown upon his face, in thought._
QUEX.
[_Suddenly, moving in the direction she has taken._] No, no! Duchess--!
[_A gong sounds in the distance, he pauses, looking at his watch,
angrily._] Ptshah! [_He turns up the stage and discovers_ SOPHY, _who is
now standing behind the hedge._] Hallo! [SOPHY _advances, laughing
rather foolishly._] What are you doing here?
SOPHY.
Looking for my rings. I took them off before I began manicuring you.
QUEX.
[_Pointing to the hedge._] You didn't drop them there, did you?
SOPHY.
No, I left them on the table.
QUEX.
[_Looking towards the table._] _There's_ the table.
SOPHY.
[_Coming to the table and putting on her rings_.] Yes, I know.
QUEX.
[_After a short pause._] How long have you been here?
SOPHY.
I? Oh, I'd just come as you spoke to me.
QUEX.
[_Half-satisfied._] Oh--?
[_He goes up the steps, gives her a parting look, and, disappears. It is
now twilight._ MRS. EDEN, FRAYNE, _and_ MURIEL--_all dressed for
dinner--appear on the other side of the low hedge._
MRS. EDEN.
[_To_ FRAYNE, _walking with him above the hedge._] Delightful, isn't it?
It was planted by the late Lord Owbridge's father a hundred years ago.
FRAYNE.
[_Seeing_ SOPHY.] Why, isn't that the young manicure lady?
MRS. EDEN.
Yes. All these pieces of sculpture are genuine old Italian. This quaint
little fountain came from the Villa Marchotti--
FRAYNE.
[_Edging towards_ SOPHY.] Alluring.
MRS. EDEN.
This is the fountain.
FRAYNE.
[_Returning to her_.] Quaint old fountain.
SOPHY.
[_To_ MURIEL, _across the hedge in a whisper._] Darling!
MRS. EDEN.
[_Looking into the distance._] I think I see the dear Duchess.
FRAYNE.
[_Alertly._] Where?
MRS. EDEN.
There.
FRAYNE.
I have the honour of knowing her Grace slightly.
MRS. EDEN.
[_Moving away._] What a sweet woman!
FRAYNE.
[_Following her._] Alluring!
[_They disappear through the trees as_ MURIEL, _coming from below the
hedge, joins_ SOPHY.
SOPHY.
Darling!
MURIEL.
What is it, Sophy?
SOPHY.
Lord Quex and this--this Duchess--they know each other very well, of
course?
MURIEL.
They are old acquaintances, I understand.
SOPHY.
Ah!
MURIEL.
Why do you ask?
SOPHY.
I've just seen them together, talking.
MURIEL.
Talking? why not?
SOPHY.
Yes, but how?
MURIEL.
How?
SOPHY.
I'll tell you. After you went indoors to dress, I took off my rings and
put them on that table. [_Looking away rather guiltily._] Rings fidget
me, this hot weather--don't they you? Well, just as I'd finished with
Mrs. Jack, it suddenly struck me--my rings!--and I hurried back to fetch
them. When I got here, I came across Lord Quex and the Duchess.
MURIEL.
[_Calmly._] Yes?
SOPHY.
I stooped down behind that hedge there.
MURIEL.
You did not!
SOPHY.
Oh, I suppose you consider it mean!
MURIEL.
Despicable!
SOPHY.
Despicable, is it! I don't care! My goodness, I'd do the shabbiest thing
a woman could do to save you from him!
MURIEL.
[_Peering among the trees._] Hush, hush, hush!
SOPHY.
[_On the verge of tears._] Perhaps you fancy I'm mean from choice?
Perhaps you imagine--?
MURIEL.
Be quiet, Sophy!
SOPHY.
[_Giving a sniff and lowering her voice._] Well, here they were,
standing exactly where you are, close to each other. [MURIEL _changes
her position._] I saw her touch his arm. Oh, I'm positive there's
something between those two! "You will?" I heard her say. And then he
made a remark about Friday--Friday--
MURIEL.
The Duchess goes on Friday.
SOPHY.
That was it, of course! And then she mumbled something I couldn't catch;
and then--listen to this!--then she said "to-night," quite plainly.
_To-night!_ and in such a tone of voice! And then he bowed, and out she
came with "to-night" again--"to-night," for the second time--and away
she went. Now, what do you think that "to-night" of hers means?
MURIEL.
[_Coldly, seating herself upon the bench._] Nothing--anything.
SOPHY.
Nothing!
MURIEL.
A hundred topics of conversation would lead to such an expression.
[_Looking at_ SOPHY _steadily._] You are mistaken in the construction
you put upon it.
SOPHY.
[_Quietly._] Mistaken, am I?
MURIEL.
[_With clenched hands._] The Duchess of Strood is a most immaculate
woman. [_Suddenly._] Oh, it would be too infamous!
[_The_ DUCHESS _and_ FRAYNE, _followed by_ MRS. EDEN, _reappear behind
the low hedge._ SOPHY _retreats to the back of the bench upon which_
MURIEL _is sitting. The_ DUCHESS _and_ FRAYNE _approach, talking,
while_ MRS. EDEN _chats to_ SOPHY _across the hedge._
FRAYNE.
[_To the_ DUCHESS, _gallantly._] I am flattered by your remembrance of
me, Duchess. When we last met I had hardly a grey hair in my head.
[_Running his hand through his hair._] Ha! The West Coast--!
DUCHESS.
Is the climate so terrible?
FRAYNE.
Deadly. But the worst of it is, [_with a bow and a sigh_] we have no
European ladies.
[MURIEL--_eyeing the_ DUCHESS--_rises, shrinkingly, and steals away._
FRAYNE.
[_Looking after_ MURIEL.] Quex! ha, there's a lucky dog, now!
DUCHESS.
[_Sweetly._] You are delighted, naturally, at your old friend's
approaching marriage?
FRAYNE.
[_Kissing his finger-tips towards the left._] Miss Eden--!
[_Inquisitively._] And--and _you_, Duchess?
DUCHESS.
[_Raising her eyebrows._] I?
FRAYNE.
You also approve his choice?
DUCHESS.
[_Blandly._] Approve? I am scarcely sufficiently intimate with either
party to express approval or disapproval.
FRAYNE.
[_Eyeing her askance._] Pardon. I thought you had known Quex
for--ah--some years.
DUCHESS.
Quite superficially. I should describe him rather as a great friend of
his Grace.
LADY OWBRIDGE _appears on the top of the steps._
LADY OWBRIDGE.
Are you here, Duchess?
DUCHESS.
[_Turning to her._] Yes.
LADY OWBRIDGE.
[_Coming down the steps._] Oh, I am really very upset!
DUCHESS.
Upset?
LADY OWBRIDGE.
About your maid. The circumstance has only just been reported to me--you
have lost your maid. [_Seeing_ FRAYNE.] Is that Sir Chichester? [FRAYNE
_advances and shakes hands._] I didn't observe you, in the dusk. Have
you seen Henry? I wonder if he is waiting for us in the drawing-room?
FRAYNE.
May I go and hunt for him?
LADY OWBRIDGE.
It would be kind of you.
[FRAYNE _goes up the steps and away._ MRS. EDEN _comes to the stone
bench._ MURIEL _returns slowly, coming from among the trees and
appearing on the further side of the low hedge._
DUCHESS.
[_To_ LADY OWBRIDGE.] Pray don't be in the least concerned for me, dear
Lady Owbridge; the absence of my maid is quite a temporary matter. Poor
Watson's father is unwell and I packed her off to him this afternoon.
She will be back by mid-day to-morrow, she promises me.
LADY OWBRIDGE.
But, dear me! in the meantime my own woman shall wait upon you.
DUCHESS.
I couldn't dream of it.
MRS. EDEN.
Why not my Gilchrist--or let us share her?
DUCHESS.
No, no; the housemaid who assisted me into this gown--
LADY OWBRIDGE.
Chalmers? well, there's Chalmers, certainly. But I fear that Chalmers
has hot hands. Or Denham--no, Denham is suffering from a bad knee. Of
course, there's Bruce! Bruce is painfully near-sighted--but would
Bruce do? Or little Atkins--?
SOPHY.
[_Stepping from behind the bench, and confronting_ LADY OWBRIDGE--_in a
quiet voice._] Or I, my lady?
LADY OWBRIDGE.
You, my dear?
SOPHY.
Why shouldn't _I_ attend upon her Grace to-night and in the morning?
[_With half a courtesy to the_ DUCHESS.] I should dearly like to have
the honour.
[MURIEL _comes forward, staring at_ SOPHY.
MRS. EDEN.
Now, that's very proper and good-natured of you, Sophy.
LADY OWBRIDGE.
But, Miss Fullgarney--
SOPHY.
[_Modestly._] Oh, I never feel like Miss Fullgarney out of my business,
my lady. You see, I was maid for years, and it's second nature to me.
Do let me, my lady--do, your Grace!
LADY OWBRIDGE.
Duchess--?
DUCHESS.
[_Hesitatingly._] Oh--oh, by all means. [_To_ SOPHY.] Thank you.
[_The gong sounds in the distance again, as_ QUEX--_now in
evening-dress--and_ FRAYNE _return together, above the hedge._
LADY OWBRIDGE.
Here is Quex.
[_The ladies, except_ MURIEL, _join_ FRAYNE _and_ QUEX.
MURIEL.
[_To_ SOPHY.] What are you doing?
SOPHY.
[_Breathlessly._] The housekeeper showed me over the house. I
remember--her maid's room is at the end of a passage leading from the
boudoir!
MURIEL.
Sophy, you must not! you sha'n't!
SOPHY.
Why, isn't it for the best? If I was mistaken over what I heard just
now, I sha'n't see or hear anything wicked to-night; and that will
satisfy both of us--!
LADY OWBRIDGE.
[_Calling._] Muriel--
[MURIEL _joins the group;_ SOPHY _slips away and disappears._
LADY OWBRIDGE.
[_To the_ DUCHESS.] Shall we go in?
[LADY OWBRIDGE _and the_ DUCHESS, _and_ MRS. EDEN _and_ MURIEL, _ascend
the steps and go towards the house. Instead, of following the ladies,_
QUEX _turns sharply and comes forward with an angry, sullen look upon
his face._
FRAYNE.
[_Looking round for_ QUEX.] Hallo, Harry! [_Coming to_ QUEX.] Aren't
you--?
QUEX.
Hang dinner! I don't want to eat.
FRAYNE.
Anything wrong, old man? anything I--?
QUEX.
[_Shaking himself up._] No, no; nothing--the hot weather. Come along; we
mustn't be late for grace. [_Boisterously._] At any rate, a glass of
champagne--[_slapping_ FRAYNE _on the back_] a glass or two of Félix
Poubelle, hey? Félix Poubelle, Carte d'Or! ha, ha, ha!
[_As they turn to go, they see_ SOPHY _on the other side of the low
hedge, looking at them steadily._
QUEX.
[_To_ FRAYNE, _quietly._] Wait!
[_They stand still, while_ SOPHY _very demurely walks to the steps,
ascends them, and disappears._
QUEX.
[_In an altered tone._] Chick--you see that hussy?
FRAYNE.
Miss Fullgarney?
QUEX.
I can't make her out. I believe she wants to play some trick on me.
FRAYNE.
Trick?
QUEX.
'Pon my soul, I believe she's prying--spying on me.
FRAYNE.
That nice gal!
QUEX.
Oh, I daresay I'm wrong. But if I found it so, I--I'd wring her neck.
FRAYNE.
[_Wistfully._] It's an alluring neck.
QUEX.
Possibly. But I'd wring it--!
[_They go up the steps together._
END OF THE SECOND ACT.
THE THIRD ACT
_The scene represents two rooms--a bedroom and a boudoir--separated by
an arched opening across which a portière is hung. The portière is,
however, drawn aside, and the bedroom, in which is a bed with an
elaborate canopy, is partly revealed. The boudoir is nearest to the
spectator. Above the fireplace, with bare hearth, on the right, is a
broad window running obliquely towards the centre, concealed by heavy
curtains. On the left of the window, facing the audience, is a door
admitting to a long, narrow passage in which a hanging lamp is burning;
and on the left of this door is the arched opening dividing the bedroom
from the boudoir. Another door opens into the boudoir on the opposite
side from a corridor or landing. Beyond this door, against the wall, is
a cabinet, on the top of which is a clock. A chair stands at each end of
this cabinet. On the left of the arched opening--placed obliquely, the
mirror turned from the audience--is a cheval-glass; and on the right is
a sculptured figure or ornamental pillar supporting a lighted lamp.
Before the window stands a large dressing-table. On the table are a pair
of candelabra with lighted candles, a looking-glass, toilet-bottles, and
a hand-mirror. A chair faces the dressing-table. Nearer to the
spectator are a writing-table, with a heap of French novels on it, and
an arm-chair. Opposite stand a circular table, an arm-chair, and a
settee. A silver box containing cigarettes, an ash-tray, a match-stand,
and a lighted spirit-lamp are on this table._
_The rooms are richly furnished and decorated, but in an old-fashioned
and formal manner. Everything is subdued and faded in tone. There are no
pillows upon the chairs, nor on the settee, nor any other signs of ease
and comfort. Keys are in the locks of both the doors._
[_The_ DUCHESS _and_ MRS. EDEN _are seated--the_ DUCHESS _in the
arm-chair,_ MRS. EDEN _upon the settee--smoking cigarettes._ MRS. EDEN
_is wearing a smart dressing-jacket; the_ DUCHESS _is still fully
dressed._ SOPHY, _who has assumed an apron, is engaged in bringing
hair-brushes and some toilet bottles from the bedroom and in arranging
them upon the dressing-table. Her eyes are constantly upon the_ DUCHESS.
MRS. EDEN.
These are awfully pleasant cigarettes. I didn't know you--
DUCHESS.
[_Plaintively._] My doctor insists--for my nerves.
MRS. EDEN.
[_Blowing rings._] I love smoking. Such a bore, because women are rather
dropping it. [_Examining her cigarette._] What _are_ these?
DUCHESS
I forget.
MRS. EDEN.
I see--Argyropulos.
[_There is a knock at the door._ SOPHY _goes to the door and opens it
slightly; a note is handed to her._
SOPHY.
[_Looking at the note._] Oh, thanks. [_Closing the door._] I beg your
pardon, your Grace--it's for me.
[_She returns to the dressing-table, reading the note._
MRS. EDEN.
[_Jestingly._] Ah, Sophy! you must encourage no more sweethearts now,
remember.
SOPHY.
This is from _him_, Mrs. Eden--from Mr. Valma, saying good-night. He's
gone to bed.
MRS. EDEN.
Good gracious! how do _you_ know?
SOPHY.
Mrs. Gregory, the housekeeper, has allowed him to sleep here to-night,
so that we may go back together in the morning.
MRS. EDEN.
Ah, yes.
DUCHESS.
[_Taking off her bracelets._] My jewel-case, Sophy.
[SOPHY _puts the note to her lips, slips it into the bodice of her
dress, and re-enters the bedroom._
MRS. EDEN.
[_To the_ DUCHESS.] By-the-by, what _did_ Valma see in your hand,
Duchess, after dinner? Why wouldn't you tell us?
DUCHESS.
I was too vexed at the moment. [_With downcast eyes._] He professed to
discover that a number of men are in love with me.
MRS. EDEN.
Yes, but what made you angry?
DUCHESS.
Why, _that_.
MRS. EDEN.
That!
DUCHESS.
They were shocking words to listen to, even when spoken by a mere
fortune-teller. And you--why did _you_ not confide to us the result of
Mr. Valma's reading of your palm?
[SOPHY _comes from the bedroom carrying a jewel-case, which she deposits
upon the dressing-table._
MRS. EDEN.
I was in a rage too. Ha! there's only _one_ man in love with _me_, it
appears.
DUCHESS.
[_With a shudder._] One is sufficiently dreadful.
MRS. EDEN.
Horrid! [_Making a_ moue.] It's Jack--my husband!
DUCHESS.
[_Reprovingly._] Hush, dear Mrs. Eden! Sophy--[SOPHY _comes to the_
DUCHESS. _Languidly._] I shall read for half-an-hour before attempting
to sleep. Put me into something loose.
SOPHY.
Yes, your Grace.
[SOPHY _again retires to the bedroom._
MRS. EDEN.
[_Rising._] May I look at your literature?
[MRS. EDEN _goes to the writing-table and turns over the books she finds
there. The_ DUCHESS _glances at the clock, and eyes_ MRS. EDEN _with
impatience._
MRS. EDEN.
"_Le Calvaire d'une vierge_." "_Lune de Miel_." "_Les Aventures de
Madame Plon_." Oh, I've heard of this! this is a little--h'm!--isn't it?
DUCHESS.
I read those things for the sake of their exquisitely polished style;
the subjects escape me.
MRS. EDEN.
[_Seating herself by the writing-table and dipping into_ "_Madame
Plon_."] Ah yes, the style--the style. [_Absorbed._] We haven't much
real literary style in England, have we?
[SOPHY _returns, carrying a pink tea-gown trimmed with green ribbons,
and a richly embroidered Mandarin's robe._
SOPHY.
Will your Grace put on one of these? [_With a curl of the lip._] They're
both very becoming, I should think.
DUCHESS.
[_Smiling sadly._] Becoming! as if that mattered, child!
SOPHY.
Which will your Grace--?
DUCHESS.
[_To herself, closing her eyes._] _Couleur de rose_--[_to_ SOPHY]
er--that pink rag. Take off my collarette.
[SOPHY _lays the tea-gown and the robe over the back of the settee and
proceeds to unfasten the_ DUCHESS'S _pearl collarette._
MRS. EDEN.
[_Startled, by some passage in the book she is reading._] Oh, I _say_!
DUCHESS.
What, dear Mrs. Eden?
MRS. EDEN.
[_Bethinking herself--soberly._] Ah, yes, the style is excellent, isn't
it?
DUCHESS.
[_To_ SOPHY, _while the collarette is in process of removal._] Have you
everything you require for the night, child?
SOPHY.
Yes, thank you, your Grace. Miss Gilchrist, Mrs. Eden's maid, has lent
me a night-gown and a pair of slippers.
DUCHESS.
[_Handing her bracelets to_ SOPHY.] Drop them into the case.
[SOPHY _puts the collarette and bracelets in the jewel-case. The_
DUCHESS, _rising, again looks at the clock and at_ MRS. EDEN. SOPHY
_returns to the_ DUCHESS, _who is now behind the settee._
DUCHESS.
[_To_ SOPHY.] It is very good of you, Sophy, to attend upon me.
SOPHY.
[_Averting her head._] Not at all, your Grace.
DUCHESS.
[_Taking up the Mandarin's robe._] Here is a pretty thing for you.
[_Giving the robe to_ SOPHY.] Wear it to dress your hair in, in the
morning.
SOPHY.
[_Breathing shortly._] Oh, no, your Grace--please--!
DUCHESS.
Nonsense, child; take it.
[SOPHY, _somewhat out of countenance, lays the robe over the back of the
chair._
MRS. EDEN.
[_Looking up_.] Well, you are a lucky girl, Sophy!
SOPHY.
Yes, I know it's very beautiful; [_returning to the_ DUCHESS] but I--I
think I'd rather not--
DUCHESS.
Tsch, tsch! help me. [_The_ DUCHESS _is standing before the
cheval-glass, which conceals her from the audience. With_ SOPHY'S _aid,
she slips out of her dress and puts herself into the tea-gown, while she
talks to_ MRS. EDEN.] Miss Eden is not well to-night, I am afraid. She
didn't come into the drawing-room.