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Page 9
Let all the world see us!
SOPHY.
[_Submissively, laying her cheek upon his brow._] Oh, but I wish--and
yet I don't wish--
POLLITT.
What?
SOPHY.
That you were not so much my superior in every way.
POLLITT.
[_In an altered voice._] Sophy.
SOPHY.
[_In a murmur, her eyes closed._] Eh-h-h?
POLLITT.
I have had my early struggles too.
SOPHY.
You, love?
POLLITT.
Yes. If you should ever hear--
SOPHY.
Hear--?
POLLITT.
That until recently I was a solicitor's clerk--
SOPHY.
[_Slightly surprised._] A solicitor's clerk?
POLLITT.
You would not turn against me?
SOPHY.
Ah, as if--!
POLLITT.
You know my real name is Pollitt--Frank Toleman Pollitt?
SOPHY.
I've heard it isn't really Valma. [_With a little shiver._] Never mind
that.
POLLITT.
But I shall be Frank to you henceforth, shan't I?
SOPHY.
Oh, no, no! always Valma to me--[_dreamily_] my Valma. [_Their lips meet
in a prolonged kiss. Then the door-gong sounds._] Get up! [_They rise in
a hurry. She holds his hand tightly._] Wait and see who it is. Oh, don't
go for a minute! stay a minute!
[_They separate; he stands looking out upon the leads._ MISS CLARIDGE
_enters, preceding the_ MARQUESS OF QUEX _and_ SIR CHICHESTER FRAYNE.
LORD QUEX _is forty-eight, keen-faced and bright-eyed, faultless in
dress, in manner debonair and charming._ FRAYNE _is a genial wreck of
about five-and-forty--the lean and shrivelled remnant of a once
good-looking man. His face is yellow and puckered, his hair prematurely
silvered, his moustache palpably touched-up._
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