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?