[Taking up a white shoe.] My shoe. Where—?

Quex.

[Shaking his head.] I don't—

Duchess.

Mentone!

Quex.

Of course—Mentone.

Duchess.

[Discovering some object in the shoe.] What is this? [Producing a garter of pale-blue silk, with a diamond buckle.] A—a—where—? ah, yes. [Replacing the things in the box.] Oh, the poor little objects! dead, yet animate; silent, yet, oh, how eloquent!

[She passes him and slips the box into the drawer of the writing-table. The clock strikes a quarter to twelve.