QUEX.

[Turning to her.] Isn’t it!  You think so, hey?  No, I suppose you haven’t experimentalised upon him; you haven’t spied on him, and tempted him as you tempted me.  You have never got him into a quiet corner and stuck your impudent face in his.  If you had—­

SOPHY.

Oh! he wouldn’t—!

[FRAYNE has walked away; QUEX now joins him.

QUEX.

[As he goes.] Wouldn’t he! ha, ha, ha! [To FRAYNE, fiercely.] What the devil am I to do, Chick?

FRAYNE.

Punch his head.

SOPHY.

[Panting.] Oh! oh! [BASTLING, indistinctly seen through the muslin blinds, appears at the window.  He raps gently upon the window frame. SOPHY glances at the window.] Eh—? [Under her breath.] Oh! [She goes swiftly to QUEX and FRAYNE, seizes them by the arms, and pushes them towards the door in the partition, saying agitatedly.] Wait there! don’t come out, or make a noise—­

QUEX.

What are you up to now?

SOPHY.

Stay here till I find out what’s happened.  Oh, I’ll do what I can for you!

[They enter the private room and she closes the door.  Then she returns to the window, unfastens it, and retreats. BASTLING pushes open the window and comes in.

BASTLING.

[Advancing to her excitedly.] Ah, Sophy! [Looking round.] Any one about?

SOPHY.

[Pointing to the left.] All my girls are in there.  Where is she?

BASTLING.

Next door.  She’s sitting down, calming herself—­having her cry out.

SOPHY.

Crying!

BASTLING.

She’s all right—­awfully happy.  I told her I’d come and tell you.

SOPHY.

Tell me—!

BASTLING.

It’s settled.

SOPHY.

Settled!

BASTLING.

She’s mine, Sophy.

SOPHY.

[With a gasp.] Yours!

BASTLING.

We’re going to be married at once—­next week.  We shall need your help still.  Of course, it must be a secret marriage.  She will follow me out by-and-by.

SOPHY.

[Nodding, dully.] Oh, yes.

BASTLING.

Why, aren’t you glad about it? [Smilingly.] Don’t you congratulate us?

SOPHY.

C—­certainly.

BASTLING.

Good.  And—­[shaking hands with her] thanks to you. [Releasing her hand.] Thanks.

SOPHY.

[Nerving herself for her task.] Thanks!

BASTLING.

A million of ’em; What’s the matter?

SOPHY.

Oh, nothing.

BASTLING.

Yes, there is.  Come, out with it.

SOPHY.

Well—­thanks! [Tossing her head.] There isn’t much in thanks.