of the circular table._] How are you?

MURIEL.

[_On the other side, giving him her hand across the table._] I don't
know. [_Withdrawing her hand._] I hate myself!

BASTLING.

Hate yourself?

MURIEL.

For this sort of thing. [_Glancing round apprehensively._] Oh!

BASTLING.

Don't be frightened. Sophy's there.

MURIEL.

I'm nervous--shaky. When I wrote to you last night I thought I should be
able to sneak up to town this morning only with a maid. And you've met
Quex too!

BASTLING.

None of them suspect--?

MURIEL.

No. Oh, but go now!

BASTLING.

Already! May I not sit and watch you?

MURIEL.

Not to-day.

BASTLING.

You must hear my news, then, from Sophy; she'll tell you--

MURIEL.

News?

SOPHY.

[_Turning to them sharply._] Hsst!

MURIEL.

Good-bye!

BASTLING.

[_Grasping her arm._] Haven't you one loving little speech for me?

SOPHY.

[_Behind the table._] Gar--r--rh!

[_He releases_ MURIEL _and picks up a large wooden bowl of bath-soap,
just as_ MISS LIMBIRD _re-enters with the hot water._ MURIEL _moves
away, hastily._

SOPHY.

[_To_ BASTLING, _taking the soap from him--raising her voice._] Thank
you--much obliged. [_Transferring the soap to_ MISS LIMBIRD _and
relieving her of the bowl of water._] For Captain Bastling, with a
bottle of Fleur de Lilas.

[MISS LIMBIRD _returns to her desk;_ SOPHY _deposits the bowl of water
upon the arm of the screen-chair;_ BASTLING _fetches his hat, and gives
some directions to_ MISS LIMBIRD.

MURIEL.

[_To_ SOPHY, _in a whisper._] Sophy, these extravagances on his part! I
am the cause of them! he is not in the least well off!

SOPHY.

Don't worry; it's all booked. Ha, ha! bless him, he'll never get his
account from me! [BASTLING, _with a parting glance in the direction of_
MURIEL _and_ SOPHY, _goes out._] He's gone.

[MISS LIMBIRD _also goes out, carrying the bowl of bath-soap._

MURIEL.

[_With a sigh of relief._] Oh!

SOPHY.

[_Coming to her._] We're by ourselves for a minute. Give me a good hug.
[_Embracing her._] My dear! my darling! ha, ha, ha! you shall be the
first to hear of it--I'm engaged.

MURIEL.

Sophy! to whom?

SOPHY.

To Mr. Valma, the great palmist.

MURIEL.

What, the young man you've talked to me about--next door? [_Kissing
her._] I hope you are doing well for yourself, dear.

SOPHY.

He's simply perfect! he's--! oh, how can I be such a brute, talking of
my own happiness--! [_In