The Gay Lord Quex | Page 4

a self-willed, independent sort of a girl--a handful, they used to call me;
and when father died I determined to have done with my step-mother,
and to come to London at any price. I was seventeen then.
POLLITT.
Yes?
SOPHY.
Oh, it's nothing to be ashamed of, really; still, I did begin life in
town--[_with an uneasy little laugh and a toss of the head_]--you'd
hardly believe it!--as a nursery-maid.
POLLITT.
H'm! I am aware that is not considered--
SOPHY.
I should think not! Oh, of course, in time I rose to be Useful Maid, and
then Maid. I've been lady's-maid in some excellent houses. And when I
got sick of maiding I went to Dundas's opposite, and served three years
at the hairdressing; that's an extremely refined position, I needn't say.
And then some kind friends routed me out, [_surveying the room
proudly_] and put me into this.
POLLITT.

Then why bestow a second thought upon your beginnings?
SOPHY.
No, I suppose I oughtn't to. Nobody can breathe a word against my
respectability. All the same, I am quite aware that it mightn't be over
pleasant for a gentleman to remember that his wife was once--[_sitting
in the screen-chair_] well, a servant.
POLLITT.
[_By her chair._] It would not weigh on my mind if you had been
kitchen-maid [_pointing out of the 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 protégée of the Edens. Her