Oh, no, no! always Valma to me--[_dreamily_] my Valma. [_Their lips meet in a prolonged kiss. Then the door-gong sounds._] Get up! [_They rise in a hurry. She holds his hand tightly._] Wait and see who it is. Oh, don't go for a minute! stay a minute! [_They separate; he stands looking out upon the leads._ MISS CLARIDGE _enters, preceding the_ MARQUESS OF QUEX _and_ SIR CHICHESTER FRAYNE. LORD QUEX _is forty-eight, keen-faced and bright-eyed, faultless in dress, in manner debonair and charming._ FRAYNE _is a genial wreck of about five-and-forty--the lean and shrivelled remnant of a once good-looking man. His face is yellow and puckered, his hair prematurely silvered, his moustache palpably touched-up._ QUEX. [_Perceiving_ SOPHY _and approaching her._] How are you, Miss Fullgarney? SOPHY. [_Respectfully, but icily._] Oh, how do you do, my lord? [MISS CLARIDGE _withdraws._ FRAYNE _comes forward, eyeing_ SOPHY _with interest._ QUEX. My aunt--Lady Owbridge--has asked me to meet her here at two o'clock. Her ladyship is lunching at a tea-shop close by--bunning is a more fitting expression--with Mrs. Eden and Miss Eden. SOPHY. [_Gladly._] Miss Muriel! QUEX. Yes, I believe Miss Muriel will place her pretty finger-tips in your charge, [_partly to_ FRAYNE] while I escort Lady Owbridge and Mrs. Jack to view this new biblical picture--[_with a gesture_] a few doors up. What is the subject?--Moses in the Bulrushes. [_To_ FRAYNE.] Come with us, Chick. SOPHY. It's not quite two, my lord; if you like, you've just time to run in next door and have your palm read. QUEX. My palm--? SOPHY. By this extraordinary palmist everybody is talking about--Valma. QUEX. [_Pleasantly._] One of these fortune-telling fellows, eh? [_Shaking his head._] I prefer the gipsy on Epsom race-course. SOPHY. [_Under her breath._] Oh, indeed! [_Curtly._] Please take a seat. [_She flounces up to the desk and busies herself there vindictively._ FRAYNE. [_To_ QUEX.] Who's that gal? what's her name? QUEX. Fullgarney; a protégée of the Edens. Her father was bailiff to old Mr. Eden, at their place in Norfolk. FRAYNE. Rather alluring--eh, what? QUEX. [_Wincing._] Don't, Chick! FRAYNE. My dear Harry, it is perfectly proper, now that you are affianced to Miss Eden, and have reformed all that sort of thing--it is perfectly proper that you should no longer observe pretty women too narrowly. QUEX. Obviously. FRAYNE. But do bear in mind that your old friend is not so pledged. Recollect that _I_ have been stuck for the last eight years, with intervals of leave, on the West Coast of Africa, nursing malaria-- QUEX [_Severely._] Only malaria? FRAYNE. [_Mournfully._] There is nothing else to nurse, dear Harry, on the West Coast of Africa. [_Glancing at_ SOPHY.] Yes, by gad, that gal is alluring! QUEX. [_Walking away._] Tssh! you're a bad companion, Chick!