Good lord, how clear it is, when it's
brought home to you in this fashion! It isn't the scamp, the roue, a
girl shies at; it's the _old_ scamp, the _old_ roue. She'll take the
young one, the blackguard with a smooth skin and a bright eye, directly
he raises a hand--take him without a murmur, money-hunter though he may
be. Take him! by Jove, she leaps into his arms!
FRAYNE.
D'ye mean that Bastling--?
QUEX.
Napier Bastling! [_Breaking into a prolonged peal of laughter._] Ha, ha,
ha, ha! Chick, he's just what _I_ was at eight-and-twenty. Ha, ha, ha!
what I was--and worse, damn him!--and she loves him.
SOPHY.
[_Who has been listening with wide-open eyes and parted lips._] It's not
true! it isn't true!
QUEX.
[_Turning to her._] Isn't it! You think so, hey? No, I suppose you
haven't experimentalised upon _him_; you haven't spied on him, and
tempted him as you tempted me. You have never got _him_ into a quiet
corner and stuck your impudent face in his. If you had--
SOPHY.
Oh! he wouldn't--!
[FRAYNE _has walked away;_ QUEX _now joins him.
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