Duchess.
[Sentimentally.] Félix Poubelle, Carte d'Or! [Looking at him over the brim of her glass.] Eh bien! au joyeux passé!
Quex.
Non, non—à un avenir meilleur!
Duchess.
Que vous êtes prosaïque! soit! [They drink. She sits, with a sigh of dissatisfaction.] Ah!
[Leaning against the table, drinking his wine.] Wonderful wine—really exceptional. [Struck by a thought, turning to her.] Forgive me—you must have found some difficulty in introducing Monsieur Félix Poubelle into this hallowed apartment.
Duchess.
No. [Sipping her wine.] My maid thinks it is by my doctor's orders.