Thank you, my dear. But you're not far wrong—I was a blackguard till I met Miss Eden; and now, losing Miss Eden, perhaps I'm going to be a bigger blackguard than before. At the same time, you know, there's not much to choose between us; for you're a low spy, an impudent, bare-faced liar, a common kitchen-cat who wriggles into the best rooms, gets herself fondled, and then spits. [Passing her and throwing himself, full-length, upon the settee and settling himself to read.] Therefore I've no compunction in making you pay your share of this score, my dear Sophy—none whatever.
[She walks feebly to the passage-door and stands rattling the handle in an uncertain way. At last she breaks down and cries a little.
Sophy.
Oh! oh! oh! let me go, my lord. [He makes no response.] Do let me go—please! will you? [Approaching him and wiping her eyes upon the sleeve of her night-dress.] I hope your lordship will kindly let me go.
Quex.
[Shortly.] No.
Sophy.
[Steadying herself.] I don't want to rouse the house at this time o' night if I can help it—
Quex.
Don't you?