Sophy.
I won't. [With a slight inclination of the head Quex turns away and stands leaning against the settee with his back towards Sophy. The clock strikes the quarter-of-an-hour. There is a short silence.] If your lordship has quite done with me—? [He makes no response. She tosses her head.] I wish you good-night, my lord. [She goes to the passage-door and turns the handle.] It's locked. This door's locked. [Looking at him.] The door's locked. [Rattling at the door-handle.] Where's the key? [Searching about on the floor near the door.] Where's the—? [Coming forward a step or two.] Has your lordship got the key of this door? [Still obtaining no answer, she stands staring at him for a moment; then she goes quickly to the other door and tries the handle. As she does so, Quex turns sharply and, leaning upon the back of the settee, watches her. After shaking the door-handle vigorously, she wheels round and faces him, indignantly.] What's the meaning of this?
Quex.
[Grimly.] Ah!
Oh—! [She sweeps round to avoid him, and then runs into the bedroom. When she has gone he seats himself in the chair by the writing-table in a lazy attitude, his legs stretched out, his hands in his pockets. After a moment or two she returns breathlessly.] I'm locked in!
Quex.
Yes.
Sophy.
You have locked me in!