is most obliging of you to
allow your pleasure to be disturbed in this way.

SOPHY.

[_Returning to him._] Oh, don't say that, my lord. [_Putting the bowl on
the table and dragging the garden-chair forward to face him._] Business
_is_ a pleasure, sometimes.

[_Her close proximity to him forces him back upon the bench._

QUEX.

[_Seated--stiffly._] You must, at least, let me open an account at your
excellent establishment.

SOPHY.

Not I. [_Seated--taking his right hand._] One may work occasionally for
love, I should hope? [_archly_] ha, ha! just for love, eh?

QUEX

[_Uncomfortably._] No, no, I couldn't permit it--I couldn't permit it.

SOPHY.

[_Holding his hand almost caressingly._] Well, well! we'll see--we'll
see. [_She clips his nails briskly and methodically. While she does so
she again hums a song, looking up at him at intervals enticingly, under
her lashes. Breaking off in her song._] My goodness! what a smooth,
young hand you have!

QUEX.

[_His discomfort increasing._] Er--indeed?

SOPHY.

Many a man of six-and-twenty would be glad to own such hands, I can tell
you. [_Patting his hand reprovingly._] Keep still! [_It is now his turn
to hum a song, which he does, under his breath, to disguise his
embarrassment. She looks up at him._] But then, you're an awfully young
man for your age, in every way, aren't you?

QUEX.

[_Gazing at the sky._] Oh, I don't know about that.

SOPHY.

[_Slyly._] You _do_ know. [_Wagging her head at him._] You _do_ know.

QUEX.

[_Relaxing slightly._] It may be so, of course, without one's being
conscious of it.

SOPHY.

_May_ be so! ah, ha! not conscious of it! ho! [_Slapping his hand again,
soundly._] Artful!

QUEX.

[_Flattered and amused._] No, no, I assure you! ha, ha!

[_They laugh together. His constraint gradually diminishes. After
shaking some liquid soap from a bottle into the bowl, she places the
bowl beside him on the bench._

SOPHY.

[_While doing this._] My young ladies at a-hundred-and-eighty-five all
agree with me about you.

QUEX.

Do they?

SOPHY.

Yes, do they!

QUEX.

Your young ladies?

SOPHY.

My girls.

QUEX.

Ha, ha, ha! And what terrible pronouncement has
a-hundred-and-eighty-five to pass upon me?

SOPHY.

Seven-and-thirty, _you_ look--not a day older; that's what _we_ say.
There, dip your fingers in that, do!

QUEX.

Into this?

SOPHY.

[_Thrusting his fingers into the bowl._] Baby! [_The wa