Quex.
For yourself, my dear Sophy.
Sophy.
[Falteringly.] Yes, but—but she made me do it.
Quex.
She made you do it! [Replacing the bottle, sternly.] And who, pray, will accept your word, upon this or any other point, against that of a lady of the position of the Duchess of Strood?
[He walks away from her and examines the books upon the writing-table. She sits on the settee, a blank expression upon her face.
Sophy.
[After a little consideration, wiping her brow with the back of her hand.] At any rate, my darling—Miss Muriel—would quickly see through a horrid trick of this sort.
Quex.