Reflect. A man loves to think a girl is like an angel--beautiful pink and white right through, with no clockwork. The moment she complains of headache, or toothache, or a chilblain on the heel, the angel game is off, and she's got to try and hold her own as a simple mortal. And as a mortal she's not in it with a man. No, it's angel or nothing with us women. I remember my Mater saying to me when I was engaged to Jack, "Sybil, now mind! enjoy the very best of health till you have been married at least ten years; and then be sure you have an excellent motive for cracking-up." [_The clock tinkles out the half-hour. She glances at the clock._] Half-past-eleven! the dead of night for this house! [_Rising._] I'll be off to my cot. [SOPHY _carries the_ DUCHESS'S _dress into the bedroom._ DUCHESS. [_Coming to_ MRS. EDEN.] _Must_ you? Good-night. MRS. EDEN. So nice of you to allow me this gossip. DUCHESS. Delighted. [_They kiss affectionately._ MRS. EDEN. We go shopping together to-morrow, do we not? DUCHESS. Yes, yes. MRS. EDEN. [_With exaggerated regret._] To-morrow! your last day here! misery! [_At the door, finding she still has "Madame Plon" in her hand._] Oh! do you happen to be on this one? DUCHESS. Not that one. MRS. EDEN. I wonder whether you'd lend it to me? DUCHESS. Gladly. MRS. EDEN. As you say, there is something about these French writers-- DUCHESS. Style. MRS. EDEN. That's it--style. [_Opening the door._] Ah! lights out. DUCHESS. Can you see? MRS. EDEN. [_Going out._] There's just a glimmer-- [_She disappears._ DUCHESS. I'll keep the door open till you have turned the corner. [SOPHY _comes back and stands watching the_ DUCHESS. _The_ DUCHESS _remains at the open door for a little, while, then kisses her hand to_ MRS. EDEN _and closes the door._ SOPHY. Shall I brush your Grace's hair now? DUCHESS. [_Going to the writing-table and taking up a book._] No. I will do it. The exertion of brushing my hair, I often find, encourages sleep. I'll put myself to bed. Run away. Don't let me see or hear anything of you till the morning. Eight o'clock. [_She reclines upon the settee and opens her book._ SOPHY, _eyeing her keenly, is about to withdraw._] Oh--Sophy! [SOPHY _returns._] Do you--believe in Mr. Valma? SOPHY. Believe in him, your Grace? DUCHESS. Believe that when he reads a woman's hand he has really the power of divination--the power he professes? SOPHY. Oh, yes. DUCHESS. [_Looking away._] Then if he tells a woman that a great many men are deeply in love with her, you--you--? SOPHY. I'm sure he knows what he's talking about. DUCHESS. [_With a little purr of contentment._] Ah! [_Assuming indifference._] I heard recently of an instance of his having conjectured such a state of affairs from the lines of a woman's hand. [_Severely._] I could only hope that his surmise was an incorrect one. SOPHY.