MRS. EDEN.

[_Sympathetically, as they walk._] Is his Grace still very unwell?

DUCHESS.

[_Smiling sadly upon_ MRS. EDEN.] He is still over seventy.

[_They wander away, through the trees, as_ QUEX _and_ MURIEL _leave the
fountain._

QUEX.

[_With tender playfulness, first glancing at the sleeping_ LADY
OWBRIDGE.] And so all these good things are to befall me after
to-morrow?

MURIEL.

[_In a low voice._] After to-morrow.

QUEX.

When I approach, I shall no longer see you skim away into the far vista
of these alleys, or shrink back into the shadows of the
corridors--[_prosaically_] after to-morrow.

MURIEL.