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FRAYNE.
[_To_ QUEX.] Who's that gal? what's her name?
QUEX.
Fullgarney; a protegee of the Edens. Her father was bailiff to old Mr.
Eden, at their place in Norfolk.
FRAYNE.
Rather alluring--eh, what?
QUEX.
[_Wincing._] Don't, Chick!
FRAYNE.
My dear Harry, it is perfectly proper, now that you are affianced to Miss Eden, and have reformed all that sort of thing--it is perfectly proper that you should no longer observe pretty women too narrowly.
QUEX.
Obviously.
FRAYNE.
But do bear in mind that your old friend is not so pledged. Recollect that _I_ have been stuck for the last eight years, with intervals of leave, on the West Coast of Africa, nursing malaria--
QUEX
[_Severely._] Only malaria?
FRAYNE.
[_Mournfully._] There is nothing else to nurse, dear Harry, on the West Coast of Africa. [_Glancing at_ SOPHY.] Yes, by gad, that gal is alluring!
QUEX.
[_Walking away._] Tssh! you're a bad companion, Chick!
[_He goes to the window and looks into the street._ FRAYNE _joins him._ SOPHY, _seizing her opportunity comes down to_ POLLITT.
SOPHY.
[_To_ POLLITT.] Valma dear, you see that man?
POLLITT.
Which of the two?
SOPHY.
The dark one. That's Lord Quex--the wickedest man in London.
POLLITT.
He looks it. [_Jealously._] Have you ever cut his nails?
SOPHY.
No, love, no. Oh, I've heard such tales about him!
POLLITT.
What tales?
SOPHY.
I'll tell you, [_demurely_] when we're married. And the worst of it is, he is engaged to Miss Eden.
POLLITT.
Who is she?
SOPHY.
Miss Muriel Eden, my foster-sister; the dearest friend I have in the world--except you, sweetheart. It was Muriel and her brother Jack who put me into this business. And now my darling is to be sacrificed to that gay old thing--!
[_The door-gong sounds;_ QUEX _turns expectantly._
POLLITT.
If Miss Eden is your foster-sister--
SOPHY.
Yes, of course, she's six-and-twenty. But the poor girl has been worried into it by her sister-in-law, Mrs. Jack, whose one idea is t.i.tle and Position. t.i.tle and Position with that old rake by her side!
MISS LIMBIRD _enters, preceding_ CAPTAIN BASTLING--_a smart, soldierly-looking man of about eight-and-twenty._ MISS LIMBIRD _returns to her seat at the desk._
SOPHY.
[_Seeing_ BASTLING.] My gracious!
POLLITT.
What's the matter?
