No need to go indoors. [_Depositing her rings upon the table and opening her bag._] I've got my bag here, with all my tools--see! QUEX. Ah, but I won't trouble you this evening. Another occasion-- SOPHY. [_Arranging her manicure instruments, &c., upon the table._] No trouble at all, my lord--quite an honour. [_Indicating the stone bench._] Please sit down there. [_Producing a little brass bowl._] Water--? [_She runs to the fountain and fills her bowl from its basin._ QUEX. [_Crossing, hesitatingly, to the right--looking at his nails and speaking in a formal manner._] You have been bidden to Fauncey Court for rest and relaxation, Miss Fullgarney; it is most obliging of you to allow your pleasure to be disturbed in this way. SOPHY. [_Returning to him._] Oh, don't say that, my lord. [_Putting the bowl on the table and dragging the garden-chair forward to face him._] Business _is_ a pleasure, sometimes. [_Her close proximity to him forces him back upon the bench._ QUEX. [_Seated--stiffly._] You must, at least, let me open an account at your excellent establishment. SOPHY. Not I. [_Seated--taking his right hand._] One may work occasionally for love, I should hope? [_archly_] ha, ha! just for love, eh? QUEX [_Uncomfortably._] No, no, I couldn't permit it--I couldn't permit it. SOPHY. [_Holding his hand almost caressingly._] Well, well! we'll see--we'll see. [_She clips his nails briskly and methodically. While she does so she again hums a song, looking up at him at intervals enticingly, under her lashes. Breaking off in her song._] My goodness! what a smooth, young hand you have! QUEX. [_His discomfort increasing._] Er--indeed? SOPHY. Many a man of six-and-twenty would be glad to own such hands, I can tell you. [_Patting his hand reprovingly._] Keep still! [_It is now his turn to hum a song, which he does, under his breath, to disguise his embarrassment. She looks up at him._] But then, you're an awfully young man for your age, in every way, aren't you? QUEX. [_Gazing at the sky._] Oh, I don't know about that. SOPHY. [_Slyly._] You _do_ know. [_Wagging her head at him._] You _do_ know. QUEX. [_Relaxing slightly._] It may be so, of course, without one's being conscious of it. SOPHY. _May_ be so! ah, ha! not conscious of it! ho! [_Slapping his hand again, soundly._] Artful! QUEX. [_Flattered and amused._] No, no, I assure you! ha, ha! [_They laugh together. His constraint gradually diminishes. After shaking some liquid soap from a bottle into the bowl, she places the bowl beside him on the bench._ SOPHY. [_While doing this._] My young ladies at a-hundred-and-eighty-five all agree with me about you. QUEX. Do they? SOPHY. Yes, do they! QUEX. Your young ladies? SOPHY. My girls. QUEX. Ha, ha, ha! And what terrible pronouncement has a-hundred-and-eighty-five to pass upon me? SOPHY. Seven-and-thirty, _you_ look--not a day older; that's what _we_ say. There, dip your fingers in that, do! QUEX. Into this?