_ 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._
QUEX.
[_Perceiving_ SOPHY _and approaching her._] How are you, Miss
Fullgarney?
SOPHY.
[_Respectfully, but icily._] Oh, how do you do, my lord?
[MISS CLARIDGE _withdraws._ FRAYNE _comes forward, eyeing_ SOPHY _with
interest._
QUEX.
My aunt--Lady Owbridge--has asked me to meet her here at two o'clock.
Her ladyship is lunching at a tea-shop close by--bunning is a more
fitting expression--with Mrs. Eden and Miss Eden.
SOPHY.
[_Gladly._] Miss Muriel!
QUEX.
Yes, I believe Miss Muriel will place her pretty finger-tips in your
charge, [_partly to_ FRAYNE] while I escort Lady Owbridge and Mrs. Jack
to view this new biblical picture--[_with a gesture_] a few doors up.
What is the subject?--Moses in the Bulrushes. [_To_ FRAYNE.] Come with
us, Chick.
SOPHY.
It's not quite two, my lord; if you like, you've just time to run in
next door and have your palm read.
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