Quex.
Your maid, yes—[sipping his wine; then sitting upon the settee, glass in hand] but my poor aunt must be highly scandalised.
Duchess.
[Her glass at her lips.] Dear Lady Owbridge will not know. I told the girl to coax it out of the butler, as if it were for herself. These women have a way of doing such things.
Quex.
[Laughing rather sadly.] Ha, ha, ha! who is beyond temptation? Not even old Bristow—sixty if he's a day.
Duchess.
[Shrugging her shoulders.] Sixty or sixteen—when a girl is fascinating—
Quex.
Fascinating! your woman, Watson!