QUEX.

Poor women! Nevertheless, pray be careful how you slight the manicure
trade. Crazes die, you know--nails grow.

POLLITT.

[_Tapping his breast._] I think _we_ have come to stay, my lord.

QUEX.

[_Lightly._] Well, you're sailing pretty close to the wind, remember,
you fellows.

POLLITT.

My lord!

QUEX.

[_Replacing his newspaper upon the table._] And if some day you should
find yourselves in the police-court, alongside a poor old woman whose
hand has been crossed with a threepenny-bit down an area--

_The_ DUCHESS _appears on the further side of the low cypress-hedge. She
is dressed for dinner. The sky is now faintly rosy, and during the
ensuing scene it deepens into a rich sunset._

QUEX.