The Gay Lord Quex Part 8

SOPHY.

Oh, my poor darling!

BASTLING.

I must see her again to-morrow. I've something serious to propose to her.

SOPHY.

 

[_Half in eagerness, half in fright._] Have you?

BASTLING.

But to-morrow it must be alone, Sophy; I can't say what I have to say in a few hasty whispers, with all your girls flitting about--and perhaps a customer or two here. Alone!

SOPHY.

Without me?

BASTLING.

Surely you can trust us. To-morrow at twelve. You'll manage it?

SOPHY.

How can I--alone?

BASTLING.

You're our only friend. Think!

SOPHY.

[_Glancing suddenly towards the left._] Valma's rooms!

[FRAYNE _has wandered to the back of the circular table, and, through his eyegla.s.s, is again observing_ SOPHY. QUEX _now joins him._

BASTLING.

[_Perceiving them--to_ SOPHY.] Look out!

SOPHY.

[_Taking a bottle from his hand--raising her voice._] You'll receive the perfume in the course of the afternoon. [_Replacing the bottle upon the table._] Shall I do your nails?

BASTLING.

Thanks.

[_They move away. He takes his place in the screen-chair; she sits facing him. During the process of manicuring they talk together earnestly._

FRAYNE.

[_Eyeing_ SOPHY.] Slim, but shapely. Slim, but shapely.

MISS MOON _enters, with a bowl of water. Having adjusted the bowl upon the arm of the screen-chair, she retires._

FRAYNE.

There's another of 'em. Plain. [_Watching_ MISS MOON _as she goes out._]

I don't know--rather alluring. [_Finding_ QUEX _by his side._] Beg your pardon.

QUEX.

Didn't hear you.

FRAYNE.

Glad of it. At the same time, old friend, you will forgive me for remarking that a man's virtuous resolutions must be--ha, ha!--somewhat feeble, hey?--when he flinches at the mere admiration of beauty on the part of a pal, connoisseur through that pal undoubtedly is.

QUEX.

Oh, my dear Chick, my resolutions are firm enough.

FRAYNE.

[_Dubiously._] H'm!

QUEX.

And my prudery is consistent with the most laudable intentions, I a.s.sure you. But the fact is, dear chap, I go in fear and trembling--

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--