his face._

FRAYNE.

[_Looking round for_ QUEX.] Hallo, Harry! [_Coming to_ QUEX.] Aren't
you--?

QUEX.

Hang dinner! I don't want to eat.

FRAYNE.

Anything wrong, old man? anything I--?

QUEX.

[_Shaking himself up._] No, no; nothing--the hot weather. Come along; we
mustn't be late for grace. [_Boisterously._] At any rate, a glass of
champagne--[_slapping_ FRAYNE _on the back_] a glass or two of Félix
Poubelle, hey? Félix Poubelle, Carte d'Or! ha, ha, ha!

[_As they turn to go, they see_ SOPHY _on the other side of the low
hedge, looking at them steadily._

QUEX.

[_To_ FRAYNE, _quietly._] Wait!

[_They stand still, while_ SOPHY _very demurely walks to the steps,