SOPHY.

Not yet! suppose the girls saw you!

POLLITT.

Let all the world see us!

SOPHY.

[_Submissively, laying her cheek upon his brow._] Oh, but I wish--and
yet I don't wish--

POLLITT.

What?

SOPHY.

That you were not so much my superior in every way.

POLLITT.

[_In an altered voice._] Sophy.

SOPHY.

[_In a murmur, her eyes closed._] Eh-h-h?

POLLITT.

I have had my early struggles too.

SOPHY.

You, love?

POLLITT.

Yes. If you should ever hear--

SOPHY.

Hear--?

POLLITT.

That until recently I was a solicitor's clerk--

SOPHY.

[_Slightly surprised._] A solicitor's clerk?

POLLITT.

You would not turn against me?

SOPHY.

Ah, as if--!

POLLITT.

You know my real name is Pollitt--Frank Toleman Pollitt?

SOPHY.

I've heard it isn't really Valma. [_With a little shiver._] Never mind
that.

POLLITT.

But I shall be Frank to you henceforth, shan't I?

SOPHY.

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