SOPHY.

[_In a murmur, her eyes closed._] Eh-h-h?

POLLITT.

I have had my early struggles too.

SOPHY.

You, love?

POLLITT.

Yes. If you should ever hear--

SOPHY.

Hear--?

POLLITT.

That until recently I was a solicitor's clerk--

SOPHY.

[_Slightly surprised._] A solicitor's clerk?

POLLITT.

You would not turn against me?

SOPHY.

Ah, as if--!

POLLITT.

You know my real name is Pollitt--Frank Toleman Pollitt?

SOPHY.

I've heard it isn't really Valma. [_With a little shiver._] Never mind that.

POLLITT.

But I shall be Frank to you henceforth, shan't I?

SOPHY.

Oh, no, no! always Valma to me--[_dreamily_] my Valma. [_Their lips meet in a prolonged kiss. Then the door-gong sounds._] Get up! [_They rise in a hurry. She holds his hand tightly._] Wait and see who it is. Oh, don't go for a minute! stay a minute!

[_They separate; he stands looking out upon the leads._ MISS CLARIDGE _enters, preceding the_ MARQUESS OF QUEX _and_ SIR CHICHESTER FRAYNE.

LORD QUEX _is forty-eight, keen-faced and bright-eyed, faultless in dress, in manner debonair and charming._ FRAYNE _is a genial wreck of about five-and-forty--the lean and shrivelled remnant of a once good-looking man. His face is yellow and puckered, his hair prematurely silvered, his moustache palpably touched-up._

QUEX.

[_Perceiving_ SOPHY _and approaching her._] How are you, Miss Fullgarney?

SOPHY.

[_Respectfully, but icily._] Oh, how do you do, my lord?

[MISS CLARIDGE _withdraws._ FRAYNE _comes forward, eyeing_ SOPHY _with interest._

QUEX.

My aunt--Lady Owbridge--has asked me to meet her here at two o'clock.

Her ladyship is lunching at a tea-shop close by--bunning is a more fitting expression--with Mrs. Eden and Miss Eden.

SOPHY.

[_Gladly._] Miss Muriel!

QUEX.

Yes, I believe Miss Muriel will place her pretty finger-tips in your charge, [_partly to_ FRAYNE] while I escort Lady Owbridge and Mrs. Jack to view this new biblical picture--[_with a gesture_] a few doors up.

What is the subject?--Moses in the Bulrushes. [_To_ FRAYNE.] Come with us, Chick.

SOPHY.

It's not quite two, my lord; if you like, you've just time to run in next door and have your palm read.

QUEX.

My palm--?

SOPHY.

By this extraordinary palmist everybody is talking about--Valma.

QUEX.

[_Pleasantly._] One of these fortune-telling fellows, eh? [_Shaking his head._] I prefer the gipsy on Epsom race-course.

SOPHY.

[_Under her breath._] Oh, indeed! [_Curtly._] Please take a seat.

[_She flounces up to the desk and busies herself there vindictively._