Arthur Wing Pinero

“ Sophy.
I said to her to-day, at my place, that I was certain, if I could meet you alone in some quiet spot I could get a kiss out of you.
Quex.
[Under his breath, glaring at her.] You—! [Coolly.] Oh, now I understand. Yes, my dear, but Miss Eden is scarcely likely to believe that a modest girl would carry her devotion to this extent. Good heavens! why, your attire—! [She pulls her robe about her sharply.] And a woman who compromises herself, recollect, is never measured by her own character, always by her companion's. ”

“ Quex.
Thanks, thanks.
[She commences operations upon his left hand. He is now thoroughly entertained by her freedom and audacity.
Sophy.
Ha, ha! do you know what I maintain?
Quex.
[Laughing.] Upon my word, I dread to think.
Sophy.
Why, that every man who looks younger than his years should be watched by the police.
Quex.
Good heavens, Sophy—Miss Fullgarney!
Sophy.
Yes—as a dangerous person.
Quex.
Dangerous! ho, come!
Sophy.
[With the suggestion of a wink.] Dangerous. The man who is younger than he ought to be is always no better than he should be. ”

“ Frayne.
Ah!
Quex.
No, no, not for my strength of mind—fear lest any trivial act of mine, however guileless; the most innocent glance in the direction of a decent-looking woman; should be misinterpreted by the good ladies in whose hands I have placed myself—especially aunt Julia. You remember Lady Owbridge?
Frayne.
Why did you intrust yourself—?
Quex.
My one chance! [Taking Frayne to the table, against which they both lean shoulder to shoulder—his voice falling into a strain of tenderness.] Chick, when I fell in love with Miss Eden—
Frayne. ”

“ Quex.
[Sitting, facing her.] But, for yourself, my dear Sidonia—well, I have the consolation of believing that directly you turn your back upon Fauncey Court much of the wofulness of your position will evaporate.
Duchess.
Harry!
Quex.
Forgive me—you admit that you delight in colouring even the most ordinary events of life rather highly. If I may put it more roughly, you are disposed, my dear Sidonia—at times, perhaps, a little inopportunely—to burn a good deal of red fire. [Leaning forward.] At any rate, I beg an especial favour of you to-night. ”

“ Quex.
Thank you, my dear. But you're not far wrong—I was a blackguard till I met Miss Eden; and now, losing Miss Eden, perhaps I'm going to be a bigger blackguard than before. At the same time, you know, there's not much to choose between us; for you're a low spy, an impudent, bare-faced liar, a common kitchen-cat who wriggles into the best rooms, gets herself fondled, and then spits. [Passing her and throwing himself, full-length, upon the settee and settling himself to read.] Therefore I've no compunction in making you pay your share of this score, my dear Sophy—none whatever. ”

“ Quex.
No, I don't; but I tell you—I tell you sincerely—that my visit to her Grace to-night was an innocent one.
Sophy.
[Turning her head away, in great disdain.] Really!
Quex.
Really. You won't accept money?
Sophy.
No, indeed, I will not.
Quex.
Very well. Ha! it's an odd attitude for a man like myself to adopt towards— [indicating Sophy by a motion of the hand.] But I make an appeal to you.
Sophy.
[Elevating her eyebrows.] Appeal?
Quex.
[With simple feeling and dignity.] I love Miss Eden. I would be a good husband to that young lady. Let me off.
Sophy. ”

“ Sophy.
No gentleman should trust to himself where his nails are concerned. Why, a man's hand has lost him a young lady's affections before this! I've heard of heaps of cases where matches have been broken off—
Quex.
[Putting his hands behind him, smiling.] Really? the results of manicure are more far-reaching than I had imagined.
Sophy.
You, see, my lord, when a man's courting he is free to look his young lady in the face for as long as he chooses; it's considered proper and attentive. But the girl is expected to drop her eyes, and then—what has she to look at? ”

“ 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.] ”

“ Quex.
We shall. Ring the bell.
Sophy.
[Blankly.] What do you mean?
Quex.
Pooh, my dear! ring, ring, ring! or yell! You won't be the first semi-circumspect young person who has got herself into a scrape and then endeavoured to save herself by raising a hullabaloo.
[She slowly takes her hand from the bell-rope and moves a step or two towards him.
Sophy.
Oh, that's what you'd try to make out, is it? [He raises his eyes from his book and gives her a significant look. Leaning upon the arm of the settee, she says faintly.] You—you—!
Quex. ”

“ Sophy.
Morning, Mrs. Eden.
[Frayne and Mrs. Eden go out.
Quex.
[Following them with Muriel.] Good morning, Miss Fullgarney.
Sophy.
[Blankly.] G—good morning, my lord. [Quex and Muriel go out, followed by Miss Limbird. Sophy stands aghast, her bosom heaving.] Oh! oh! oh! [The door-gong sounds. Pollitt appears at the window. Sophy is wringing her hands.] Oh—!
Pollitt.
[Entering.] My love! what's the matter?
Sophy.
She—she's left me, without a word!
Pollitt.
She?
Sophy.
Muriel—without so much as wishing me good-morning. [With a sob.] Oh! when I've done what I can for everybody! ”

“ But I always thought it unwise to protract the engagement. You never know what may happen, do you? I must tell the dear Duchess—
[She joins the Duchess and Frayne, and chatters to them.
Lady Owbridge.
[To Muriel, in a low voice.] Muriel, you are right. In this life, if you have anything to pardon, pardon quickly. Slow forgiveness is little better than no forgiveness.
Mrs. Eden.
[Coming to Quex.] Congratulate you.
Quex.
Thanks.
[Lady Owbridge moves away, joining the Duchess, as Mrs. Eden returns to Muriel.
Mrs. Eden.
[Kissing Muriel.] You sensible girl! ”

“ On the right Miss Claridge and Miss Huddle are in the final stages of manicuring two smart-looking men. The men occupy the screen-chairs; the manicurists—comely girls in black frocks—sit, facing the men, upon the smaller seats. On the left Miss Moon is rougeing and varnishing the nails of a fashionably-dressed young lady, whose maid is seated at the table in the centre. Miss Limbird is at the desk, deep in accounts. ”

“ Frayne.
[Gloomily.] Frankly, Harry, I shouldn't be in the least surprised if the jade sold you.
Quex.
[His jaw falling.] You wouldn't?
Frayne.
No.
Quex.
Phew! I should. [Warmly.] By Jove, I should!
Frayne.
I have conceived a great aversion to her—a long, scraggy gal.
Quex.
[With enthusiasm.] As full of courage as a thoroughbred!
Frayne.
[Closing his eyes.] I can picture her elbows; sharp, pointed elbows—the barbed fence of the spiteful woman.
Quex. ”

“ 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? ”

“ Frayne.
However, we must contrive, you and I, to pass one more evening together before the event.
Quex.
One! many!
Frayne.
No, no, I mean a buster, Harry; a regular night of it—
Quex.
Good lord! go away!
[Mrs. Eden joins Lady Owbridge as Frayne advances to Muriel.
Frayne.
[Taking Muriel's hand.] Dear young lady, you are about to become the wife of one of the best. There are not many of us left; we are a dwindling band, Miss Eden—
[The Duchess comes to Quex.
Duchess.
[To Quex, softly.] Sincere congratulations. [He bows stiffly.] At any time, you know, when you return to England—
Quex. ”

“ On the right-hand stone bench the Duchess of Strood and Mrs. Eden are seated. The Duchess is a daintily beautiful doll of about seven-and-thirty—a poseuse, outwardly dignified and stately when upon her guard, really a frail, shallow little creature full of extravagant sentimentality. Until Lady Owbridge wakes, the conversation is carried on in subdued tones.
Mrs. Eden.
[Indicating Muriel and Quex.] They make a fascinating couple, don't they, Duchess?
Duchess.
[With placid melancholy.] To see two people on the threshold of wedlock is always painfully interesting. ”

“ You have never got him into a quiet corner and stuck your impudent face in his. If you had—
Sophy.
Oh! he wouldn't—!
[Frayne has walked away; Quex now joins him.
Quex.
[As he goes.] Wouldn't he! ha, ha, ha! [To Frayne, fiercely.] What the devil am I to do, Chick?
Frayne.
Punch his head.
Sophy.
[Panting.] Oh! oh! [Bastling, indistinctly seen through the muslin blinds, appears at the window. He raps gently upon the window frame. Sophy glances at the window.] Eh—? [Under her breath.] Oh! ”

“ Miss Moon.
Oh, did she?
Quex.
And has come up to town this morning.
Miss Huddle.
Then she'll have gone home, I expect, to change.
Miss Moon.
That's what she's done. [Slightly disappointed.] Well, I should have been sorry if anything had happened to her.
Quex.
Naturally.
Miss Huddle.
So should I, though I'm quite new here.
Miss Moon.
It never gives me any pleasure to hear of people having their limbs crushed.
Miss Huddle.
Or being murdered by tramps.
Miss Moon.
Won't your lordship take a chair? [To Frayne, who has wandered down to the window.] And you, sir? ”

“ But there, dangerous or not dangerous, in my heart I can't help holding with what my lady-customers are continually saying.
Quex.
[Watching her keenly.] No? and what are your lady-customers continually saying?
Sophy.
Why, that the young fellows of the day are such conceited, apish creatures; no man under forty-five is worth wasting a minute's time over.
Quex.
Ho! they say that, your lady-customers?
Sophy.
Yes; and they're good judges, they are.
Quex.
Good judges! none better—none better.
Sophy.
[Laying her clipper aside suddenly, and putting her hand to her eyes with a cry of pain.] Oh! ”

“ Miss Huddle goes out, carrying her bowl and towel, as Frank Pollitt—"Valma"—appears at the window on the left—a well, if rather showily, dressed young fellow, wearing a frock coat, white waistcoat, and patent-leather boots. He is handsome in a commonplace way, and, though stilted and self-conscious, earnest in speech and bearing. ”

“ Come, girls! look alive! no more work for me to-day! I'm off home to change my frock. I've got an invite down to Richmond. My hat and coat!
[The door-gong sounds. Miss Moon disappears at the door in the partition. Miss Huddle enters.
Sophy.
Miss Hud-delle, please run next door, and ask Mr. Valma to step this way for a moment.
Miss Huddle.
He's on the leads, Miss Fullgarney, smoking a cigarette.
Sophy.
[Running across to the window.] Get my bag of tools ready! sharp! [Miss Huddle and Miss Limbird go out; Sophy opens the window and calls.] Valma! Valma! Valma! ”

“ Failing in this, she detaches it with the aid of a pair of scissors, and, opening the door leading from the corridor, ties the ribbon to the outer door-handle. Whereupon she closes the door and walks about the room contentedly. Suddenly she pauses, and, going to the cabinet, produces a small tray on which are a bottle of champagne and a champagne glass. Placing the tray on the circular table, she regards the single glass thoughtfully. Then, as if struck by an idea, she disappears into the bedroom. After a brief interval, the door opens softly and Quex enters, carrying a lighted wax match. ”

“ 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.
Duchess.
[Shrugging her shoulders.] Sixty or sixteen—when a girl is fascinating—
Quex.
Fascinating! your woman, Watson!
Duchess.
No, no—Watson has left me for a few hours. I am speaking of Sophy.
[There is a brief silence. Quex, surprised in the act of drinking, lowers his glass slowly.
Quex.
[In a queer voice.] Sophy?
Duchess.
Miss Fullgarney, the manicurist. She was so good as to offer to take Watson's place for to-night. ”

“ Nothing. Only her Grace has gone to Mrs. Eden's room and wishes her letters taken there in the morning most particularly—see?
The Voices.
What did you ring like that for? Thought the place was afire!
Sophy.
Oh, don't make a fuss about nothing. You servants are an old-fashioned lot. Bong swor!
The Voices.
[Angrily.] Oh, good-night.
Sophy.
Ha, ha, ha!
[She closes the door and totters away from it, sobbing hysterically, as Quex comes to her.
Quex.
[Kindly.] Be off. Go to bed. Serve me how you please. Miss Fullgarney, upon my soul, I—I humbly beg your pardon.
Sophy.
[Passing him.] Oh! oh! oh! ”

“ 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! ”