Sophy.
Though I am certain I can make my story good anyway. But I'd rather your lordship let me out without the bother—[Piteously.] Do! [He turns a leaf of his book. She speaks defiantly.] Very well! very well! here I sit then! [Seating herself.] We'll see who tires first, you or I! you or I! [Again snapping her fingers at him.] Bah! you horror! you—horror!
Quex.
[Raising himself on his elbow.] Will you have this sofa? [She gives him a fierce look.] A glass of your wine?
[She rises, with a stamp of the foot, and once more paces the room. He sips his wine and re-settles himself. She goes distractedly from one object to another, now leaning upon a chair, then against the pillar of the cheval-glass. Ultimately she comes to the bell-rope and fingers it again irresolutely.
[Faintly.] My lord—! [He remains silent. She releases the bell-rope.] Oh—h—h! [She pauses by the settee, looking down upon him as though she would strike him; then she walks away, and, seating herself in the chair by the bedside, drops her head upon the bed. The clock tinkles the half-hour. There is a short silence. Suddenly she rises, uttering a sharp cry, with her hand to her heart.] Oh! [panting] oh! oh!
Quex.
[Looking at her.] What now?
Sophy.