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.