_Non, non--à un avenir meilleur!_

DUCHESS.

_Que vous êtes prosaïque! soit!_ [_They drink. She sits, with a sigh of
dissatisfaction._] Ah!

QUEX.

[_Leaning against the table, drinking his wine._] Wonderful wine--really
exceptional. [_Struck by a thought, turning to her._] Forgive me--you
must have found some difficulty in introducing Monsieur Félix Poubelle
into this hallowed apartment.

DUCHESS.

No. [_Sipping her wine._] My maid thinks it is by my doctor's orders.

QUEX.

Your maid, yes--[_sipping his wine; then sitting upon the settee, glass
in hand_] but my poor aunt must be highly scandalised.

DUCHESS.

[_Her glass at her lips._] Dear Lady Owbridge will not know. I told the
girl to coax it out of the butler, as if it were for herself. These
women have a way of doing such things.