The Gay Lord Quex | Page 7

is liberally discharged when he has made a settlement on
her, or stuck her into his will! [_Blowing the ideas from him._] Phugh!
[_He goes to the little table, and examines the objects upon it._
FRAYNE.
[_Following him._] Talking of--ah--mistresses I suppose you've--?
QUEX.
Oh, yes, they're all--
FRAYNE.
Made happy and comfortable?
QUEX.
I've done my utmost.
FRAYNE.
Mrs.--?
QUEX.
[_Rather irritably._] I say, all of them.
FRAYNE.
No trouble with Lady--?
QUEX.
No, no, no, no.
FRAYNE.
What about the little Duchess? [QUEX _pauses in his examination of a
nail-clipper._] Eh?
QUEX.
[_Turning to him, slightly embarrassed._] Odd that you should mention
her.
FRAYNE.
Why?
QUEX.
She's staying at Fauncey Court also.
FRAYNE.
The Duchess!
QUEX.
She proposed herself for a visit. I dared not raise any objection, for her
reputation's sake; the ladies would have suspected at once. You're one

of the few, Chick, who ever got an inkling of that business.
FRAYNE.
Very awkward!
QUEX.
No. She's behaving admirably. [_Thoughtfully--with a wry face._] Of
course she was always a little romantic and sentimental.
FRAYNE.
By gad though, what an alluring woman!
QUEX.
[_Shortly._] Perhaps.
FRAYNE.
Ho, come! you don't mean to tell me--?
QUEX.
[_With dignity._] Yes, I do--upon my honour, I've forgotten. [_The
door-gong sounds._] This must be the ladies.
MURIEL EDEN _enters, followed by_ MISS CLARIDGE. MURIEL
_is a tall, fresh-looking, girlish young woman, prettily dressed._
SOPHY _rises and meets her._
MURIEL.
[_Behind the circular table--to_ SOPHY, _breathlessly, as if from the
exertion of running upstairs._] Well, Sophy! [_Looking round._] Is
Lord Quex--? [SOPHY glances towards QUEX, _who advances._] Oh,
yes. [To QUEX.] Lady Owbridge and Mrs. Jack won't fag upstairs just
now. They're waiting for you in the carriage, they asked me to say.
QUEX.
[_In tender solicitation._] Moses in the Bulrushes? You still elect to
have your nails cut?
MURIEL.
Thanks, I--[_with an effort_] I've already seen the picture.
QUEX.
And its merits are not sufficient--?
MURIEL.
[_Guiltily._] I thought the bulrushes rather well done.
QUEX.
May I present my old friend, Sir Chichester Frayne?
MURIEL.
[To FRAYNE.] How do you do?

QUEX.
[To FRAYNE.] Will you come, Chick? [To MURIEL.] We shall be
back very soon.
[MURIEL nods to QUEX and FRAYNE _and turns away to the
window, removing her gloves._ SOPHY _joins her._
FRAYNE.
[To QUEX.] As I suspected--the typical, creamy English girl. We all do
it! we all come to that, sooner or later.
QUEX.
[_Looking from_, MURIEL to FRAYNE _proudly._] Well--
FRAYNE.
[_In answer, kissing his finger-tips to the air._] Alluring!
QUEX.
Ha! [_Hastily._] We're keeping the ladies waiting.
[_He goes out._ FRAYNE is following QUEX, when he encounters
MISS CLARIDGE. _He pauses, gazing at her admiringly. The
door-gong sounds._
MISS CLARIDGE.
[_Surprised._] Do you wish anything, sir?
FRAYNE.
[_With a little sigh of longing._] Ah--h!
MISS CLARIDGE.
[_Coldly._] Shall I cut your nails?
FRAYNE.
[_Wofully._] That's it, dear young lady--you can't!
MISS CLARIDGE.
[_With hauteur._] Reely! Why not, sir?
FRAYNE.
I regret to say I bite 'em.
[He goes out. MISS CLARIDGE titters loudly to MISS LIMBIRD.
SOPHY.
[To MISS CLARIDGE, _reprovingly._] Miss Claridge! I don't require
you at present.
[MISS CLARIDGE _withdraws._
SOPHY.
[Going to MISS LIMBIRD.] Miss Limbird, will you oblige me? hot
water, please.

[MISS LIMBIRD _goes out. At once_ SOPHY gives a signal to
BASTLING and MURIEL, _and keeps guard._ BASTLING and
MURIEL _talk in low, hurried tones._
BASTLING.
[_On the right of the circular table._] How are you?
MURIEL.
[_On the other side, giving him her hand across the table._] I don't
know. [_Withdrawing her hand._] I hate myself!
BASTLING.
Hate yourself?
MURIEL.
For this sort of thing. [_Glancing round apprehensively._] Oh!
BASTLING.
Don't be frightened. Sophy's there.
MURIEL.
I'm nervous--shaky. When I wrote to you last night I thought I should
be able to sneak up to town this morning only with a maid. And you've
met Quex too!
BASTLING.
None of them suspect--?
MURIEL.
No. Oh, but go now!
BASTLING.
Already! May I not sit and watch you?
MURIEL.
Not to-day.
BASTLING.
You must hear my news, then, from Sophy; she'll tell you--
MURIEL.
News?
SOPHY.
[_Turning to them sharply._] Hsst!
MURIEL.
Good-bye!
BASTLING.
[_Grasping her arm._] Haven't you one loving little speech for me?
SOPHY.

[_Behind the table._] Gar--r--rh!
[He releases MURIEL _and picks up a large wooden bowl of bath-soap,
just as_ MISS LIMBIRD _re-enters with the hot water._ MURIEL
_moves away, hastily._
SOPHY.
[To BASTLING, _taking the soap from him--raising her voice._]
Thank you--much obliged. [Transferring the soap to MISS LIMBIRD
_and relieving her of the bowl of water._] For Captain Bastling, with a
bottle of Fleur de Lilas.
[MISS LIMBIRD _returns to her desk;_ SOPHY _deposits the bowl of
water upon the arm of the screen-chair;_ BASTLING _fetches his hat,
and gives some directions to_ MISS LIMBIRD.
MURIEL.
[To SOPHY,