Sophy.
Oh—!
Quex.
[Taking up the bottle of champagne.] And an excellent banquet you had chanced to provide for the occasion. [Reading the label.] "Félix Poubelle, Carte d'Or." It will appear, I am afraid, that you had been preparing for the entertainment of some amorous footman.
Sophy.
[Snapping her fingers at him.] Puh! bah! Oh, the whole house shall know that that is your Duchess's champagne.
Quex.
Excuse me—Mr. Brewster, the butler, will disprove that tale. You wheedled this out of him on your own account, remember.
Sophy.
[Disconcerted.] Oh—ah, yes—but—