[_She commences to cut the string. He comes to her._

QUEX.

[_Taking the scissors from her._] Oh, permit me.

[_Always intent upon avoiding her, he moves away, the bottle in his
hand, cutting the string._

DUCHESS.

[_Following him._] Is it likely to make a loud report?

QUEX.

Hardly.

DUCHESS.

[_Frowning censoriously._] One doesn't want a sound of that sort to ring
through the corridors. [_Looking about her impatiently._] These formal,
frigid rooms!

[_She runs lightly into the bedroom, snatches a pillow from the bed, and
returns to him._

QUEX.

[_His hand upon the cork._] What is that for?