MRS. JUNO. Oh, don't make me say it. Of course I know. Nothing—not life nor death nor shame nor anything can part us.
A MATTER-OF-FACT MALE VOICE IN THE CORRIDOR. All right. This must be it.
The two recover with a violent start; release one another; and spring back to opposite sides of the lounge.
GREGORY. That did it.
MRS. JUNO [in a thrilling whisper] Sh—sh—sh! That was my husband's voice.
GREGORY. Impossible: it's only our guilty fancy.
A WOMAN'S VOICE. This is the way to the lounge. I know it.
GREGORY. Great Heaven! we're both mad. That's my wife's voice.
MRS. JUNO. Ridiculous! Oh! we're dreaming it all. We [the door opens; and Sibthorpe Juno appears in the roseate glow of the corridor (which happens to be papered in pink) with Mrs. Lunn, like Tannhauser in the hill of Venus. He is a fussily energetic little man, who gives himself an air of gallantry by greasing the points of his moustaches and dressing very carefully. She is a tall, imposing, handsome, languid woman, with flashing dark eyes and long lashes. They make for the chesterfield, not noticing the two palpitating figures blotted against the walls in the gloom on either side. The figures flit away noiselessly through the window and disappear].
JUNO [officiously] Ah: here we are. [He leads the way to the sofa]. Sit down: I'm sure you're tired. [She sits]. That's right. [He sits beside her on her left]. Hullo! [he rises] this sofa's quite warm.