[Always intent upon avoiding her, he moves away, the bottle in his hand, cutting the string.
Duchess.
[Following him.] Is it likely to make a loud report?
Quex.
Hardly.
Duchess.
[Frowning censoriously.] One doesn't want a sound of that sort to ring through the corridors. [Looking about her impatiently.] These formal, frigid rooms!
[She runs lightly into the bedroom, snatches a pillow from the bed, and returns to him.
Quex.
[His hand upon the cork.] What is that for?