Miss Tre. His peroration was sublime.
Margaret. (rise, down R. C. and sit in chair) It was odious of that old man's daughter to thank him so effusively. I detest Lady Claude!
Miss Tre. (rising and R. C.) Jealous, my Margaret? They knew each other, in the long ago. I have an idea that he once—but he has not her photograph! I came here to see!
Margaret. It is not on the mantelpiece.
Miss Tre. Nor in his desk. I looked!
Margaret. Oh! You should not have done that!
Miss Tre. There is no limit to my devotion. It is true Lady Claude is handsome.
Margaret. (indignantly) Handsome! A widow—and old! Why, she's thirty-five, at least!
Miss Tre. (tartly away L.) My age, Margaret!
Margaret. (rise and across to her) Ah, dear Treaby, forgive me! But—when I am here—in his room—and think of—a possible rival! (up to desk C.) Here, where he sits, and works! Every day I steal in, and let fall a flower. I love to think of him kissing that flower, perhaps—who knows, wearing it next his heart! If he only would speak to me! Little girl, he calls me, then turns his eyes timidly away. Little girl! Oh never did lover's epithet sound so sweet!