The Gay Lord Quex | Page 4

window_] at Fletcher's Hotel. [_Looking about him._] It's this business I don't care for.
SOPHY.
This business!
POLLITT.
For you. If you did no more than glide about your rooms, superintending your young ladies! [_Sitting, facing her._] But I hate the idea of your sitting here, or there, holding some man's hand in yours!
SOPHY.
[_Suddenly ablaze._] Do you! [_Pointing out of the window._] Yet you sit there, day after day, and hold women's hands in yours!
POLLITT.
[_Eagerly._] You are jealous of me?
SOPHY.
[_Panting._] A little.
POLLITT.
[_Going down upon one knee._] Ah, you do love me!
SOPHY.
[_Faintly._] Fondly.
POLLITT.
And you will be my wife?
SOPHY.
Yes.
POLLITT.
[_Embracing her._] My dearest!
SOPHY.
Not yet! suppose the girls saw you!
POLLITT.
Let all the world see us!
SOPHY.
[_Submissively, laying her cheek upon his brow._] Oh, but I wish--and yet I don't wish--
POLLITT.
What?
SOPHY.
That you were not so much my superior in every way.
POLLITT.
[_In an altered voice._] Sophy.
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._
FRAYNE.
[To QUEX.] Who's that gal? what's her name?
QUEX.
Fullgarney; a prot��g��e 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 Title and Position. Title 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