These are awfully pleasant cigarettes. I didn't know you-- DUCHESS. [_Plaintively._] My doctor insists--for my nerves. MRS. EDEN. [_Blowing rings._] I love smoking. Such a bore, because women are rather dropping it. [_Examining her cigarette._] What _are_ these? DUCHESS I forget. MRS. EDEN. I see--Argyropulos. [_There is a knock at the door._ SOPHY _goes to the door and opens it slightly; a note is handed to her._ SOPHY. [_Looking at the note._] Oh, thanks. [_Closing the door._] I beg your pardon, your Grace--it's for me. [_She returns to the dressing-table, reading the note._ MRS. EDEN. [_Jestingly._] Ah, Sophy! you must encourage no more sweethearts now, remember. SOPHY. This is from _him_, Mrs. Eden--from Mr. Valma, saying good-night. He's gone to bed. MRS. EDEN. Good gracious! how do _you_ know? SOPHY. Mrs. Gregory, the housekeeper, has allowed him to sleep here to-night, so that we may go back together in the morning. MRS. EDEN. Ah, yes. DUCHESS. [_Taking off her bracelets._] My jewel-case, Sophy. [SOPHY _puts the note to her lips, slips it into the bodice of her dress, and re-enters the bedroom._ MRS. EDEN. [_To the_ DUCHESS.] By-the-by, what _did_ Valma see in your hand, Duchess, after dinner? Why wouldn't you tell us? DUCHESS. I was too vexed at the moment. [_With downcast eyes._] He professed to discover that a number of men are in love with me. MRS. EDEN. Yes, but what made you angry? DUCHESS. Why, _that_. MRS. EDEN. That! DUCHESS. They were shocking words to listen to, even when spoken by a mere fortune-teller. And you--why did _you_ not confide to us the result of Mr. Valma's reading of your palm? [SOPHY _comes from the bedroom carrying a jewel-case, which she deposits upon the dressing-table._ MRS. EDEN. I was in a rage too. Ha! there's only _one_ man in love with _me_, it appears. DUCHESS. [_With a shudder._] One is sufficiently dreadful. MRS. EDEN. Horrid! [_Making a_ moue.] It's Jack--my husband! DUCHESS. [_Reprovingly._] Hush, dear Mrs. Eden! Sophy--[SOPHY _comes to the_ DUCHESS. _Languidly._] I shall read for half-an-hour before attempting to sleep. Put me into something loose. SOPHY. Yes, your Grace. [SOPHY _again retires to the bedroom._ MRS. EDEN. [_Rising._] May I look at your literature? [MRS. EDEN _goes to the writing-table and turns over the books she finds there. The_ DUCHESS _glances at the clock, and eyes_ MRS. EDEN _with impatience._ MRS. EDEN. "_Le Calvaire d'une vierge_." "_Lune de Miel_." "_Les Aventures de Madame Plon_." Oh, I've heard of this! this is a little--h'm!--isn't it? DUCHESS. I read those things for the sake of their exquisitely polished style; the subjects escape me. MRS. EDEN. [_Seating herself by the writing-table and dipping into_ "_Madame Plon_."] Ah yes, the style--the style. [_Absorbed._] We haven't much real literary style in England, have we?