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QUEX.
[_Turning._] Eh?
d.u.c.h.eSS.
[_Pointing to the bottle of champagne._] "Felix Poubelle, Carte d'Or"!
[_Taking up the scissors which she has left upon the table._] The wire is already severed.
[_She commences to cut the string. He comes to her._
QUEX.
[_Taking the scissors from her._] Oh, permit me.
[_Always intent upon avoiding her, he moves away, the bottle in his hand, cutting the string._
d.u.c.h.eSS.
[_Following him._] Is it likely to make a loud report?
QUEX.
Hardly.
d.u.c.h.eSS.
[_Frowning censoriously._] One doesn't want a sound of that sort to ring through the corridors. [_Looking about her impatiently._] These formal, frigid rooms!
[_She runs lightly into the bedroom, s.n.a.t.c.hes a pillow from the bed, and returns to him._
QUEX.
[_His hand upon the cork._] What is that for?
d.u.c.h.eSS.
[_Enveloping his hand and the bottle in the pillow--calmly._] It is wiser to m.u.f.fle it.
[_He pauses, looking at her fixedly._
QUEX.
[_In a low, grave voice._] Dolly--
d.u.c.h.eSS.
Dolly! [_Closing her eyes._] You give me my pet name again!
QUEX.
Ah, Dolly, if only there wasn't quite so much in one's life--to m.u.f.fle!
[_He pulls the cork. She tosses the pillow on to the settee, a little irritably._] May I--?
[_She inclines her head. He pours wine into the gla.s.ses; she takes the champagne gla.s.s, he the tumbler._
d.u.c.h.eSS.
[_Sentimentally._] Felix Poubelle, Carte d'Or! [_Looking at him over the brim of her gla.s.s._] _Eh bien! au joyeux pa.s.se!_
QUEX.
_Non, non--a un avenir meilleur!_
d.u.c.h.eSS.
_Que vous etes prosaque! 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.
d.u.c.h.eSS.
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, gla.s.s in hand_] but my poor aunt must be highly scandalised.
d.u.c.h.eSS.
[_Her gla.s.s 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.
d.u.c.h.eSS.
[_Shrugging her shoulders._] Sixty or sixteen--when a girl is fascinating--
QUEX.
Fascinating! your woman, Watson!
d.u.c.h.eSS.
No, no--Watson has left me for a few hours. I am speaking of Sophy.
