Sophy.
[Putting her bag upon the table and removing her gloves.] Phew!
[She eyes him askance, undecided, as to a plan of action. He lowers his paper again, disconcerting her.
Quex.
You don't feel you ought to go and meet your—Mr. Valma?
Sophy.
[Edging towards him.] I might miss him—mightn't I?
Quex.
Certainly—you might.
Sophy.