Ah, as if—!
Pollitt.
You know my real name is Pollitt—Frank Toleman Pollitt?
Sophy.
I've heard it isn't really Valma. [With a little shiver.] Never mind that.
Pollitt.
But I shall be Frank to you henceforth, shan't I?
Oh, no, no! always Valma to me—[dreamily] my Valma. [Their lips meet in a prolonged kiss. Then the door-gong sounds.] Get up! [They rise in a hurry. She holds his hand tightly.] Wait and see who it is. Oh, don't go for a minute! stay a minute!
[They separate; he stands looking out upon the leads. Miss Claridge enters, preceding the Marquess of Quex and Sir Chichester Frayne. Lord Quex is forty-eight, keen-faced and bright-eyed, faultless in dress, in manner debonair and charming. Frayne is a genial wreck of about five-and-forty—the lean and shrivelled remnant of a once good-looking man. His face is yellow and puckered, his hair prematurely silvered, his moustache palpably touched-up.