[Thoughtfully.] Tsch, tsch, tsch! [Sharply, with a snap of the fingers.] Yes—by Jove—! [Pointing to the chair by the writing-table.] Sit down. [Imperatively.] Sit down. [She sits, wonderingly. He goes to the table, selects a plain sheet of paper and lays it before her. Then he hands her a pen.] Write as I tell you.
Sophy.
[Tremblingly.] What?
Quex.
[Pointing to the ink.] Ink. [Dictating.] "My lord." [She writes; he walks about as he dictates.] "My lord. I am truly obliged to you—"
Sophy
Yes.
Quex.
"For your great liberality—"
Sophy.