COMTESSE. With a few trivial alterations by yourself, I swear. Can you deny it? [No wonder that MAGGIE is outraged. She replaces JOHN’s speech in the bag with becoming hauteur.] MAGGIE. Comtesse, these insinuations are unworthy of you. May I ask where is my husband? [The COMTESSE drops her a curtsey.] COMTESSE. I believe your Haughtiness may find him in the Dutch garden. Oh, I see through you. You are not to show him your speech. But you are to get him to write another one, and somehow all your additions will be in it. Think not, creature, that you can deceive one so old in iniquity as the Comtesse de la Briere. [There can be but one reply from a good wife to such a charge, and at once the COMTESSE is left alone with her shame. Anon a footman appears. You know how they come and go.] FOOTMAN. You rang, my lady? COMTESSE. Did I? Ah, yes, but why? [He is but lately from the ploughshare and cannot help her. In this quandary her eyes alight upon the bag. She is unfortunately too abandoned to feel her shame; she still thinks that she has the choice of weapons. She takes the speech from the bag and bestows it on her servitor.] Take this to Mr. Venables, please, and say it is from Mr. Shand. [THOMAS--but in the end we shall probably call him JOHN--departs with the dangerous papers; and when MAGGIE returns she finds that the COMTESSE is once more engaged in her interrupted game of Patience.] You did not find him? [All the bravery has dropped from MAGGIE’s face.] MAGGIE. I didn’t see him, but I heard him. SHE is with him. I think they are coming here. [The COMTESSE is suddenly kind again.] COMTESSE. Sybil? Shall I get rid of her? MAGGIE. No, I want her to be here, too. Now I shall know. [The COMTESSE twists the little thing round.] COMTESSE. Know what? MAGGIE. As soon as I look into his face I shall know. [A delicious scent ushers in the fair SYBIL, who is as sweet as a milking stool. She greets MRS. SHAND with some alarm.] MAGGIE. How do you do, Lady Sybil? How pretty you look in that frock. [SYBIL rustles uncomfortably.] You are a feast to the eye. SYBIL. Please, I wish you would not. [Shall we describe SYBIL’S frock, in which she looks like a great strawberry that knows it ought to be plucked; or would it be easier to watch the coming of JOHN? Let us watch JOHN.] JOHN. You, Maggie! You never wrote that you were coming. [No, let us watch MAGGIE. As soon as she looked into his face she was to know something of importance.] MAGGIE [not dissatisfied with what she sees]. No, John, it’s a surprise visit. I just ran down to say good-bye. [At this his face falls, which does not seem to pain her.] SYBIL [foreseeing another horrible Scotch scene]. To say good-bye? COMTESSE [thrilling with expectation]. To whom, Maggie? SYBIL [deserted by the impediment, which is probably playing with rough boys in the Lovers’ Lane]. Auntie, do leave us, won’t you? COMTESSE. Not I. It is becoming far too interesting.