Muriel.

[Behind the circular table—to Sophy, breathlessly, as if from the exertion of running upstairs.] Well, Sophy! [Looking round.] Is Lord Quex—? [Sophy glances towards Quex, who advances.] Oh, yes. [To Quex.] Lady Owbridge and Mrs. Jack won't fag upstairs just now. They're waiting for you in the carriage, they asked me to say.

Quex.

[In tender solicitation.] Moses in the Bulrushes? You still elect to have your nails cut?

Muriel.

Thanks, I—[with an effort] I've already seen the picture.

Quex.

And its merits are not sufficient—?

Muriel.

[Guiltily.] I thought the bulrushes rather well done.