[A newspaper in her hand—talking to him, in undertones, over the top of it.] For a week, only the merest commonplaces have passed between us. I must relieve my heart; it is bursting!
Quex.
I entreat you to consider my position.
Duchess.
Yours! have I no reputation to endanger? [Rising—laying the paper aside.] What a pitiably small request! you will grant it?
Quex.
If you could see your way to excuse me—
Duchess.
In memory of the past—! I demand it!
Quex.