YE [echoing the music]. Marcus Darnley! What a splendid name!
ELLIE. Oh, I'm so glad you think so. I think so too; but I was afraid it was only a silly fancy of my own.
MRS HUSHABYE. Hm! Is he one of the Aberdeen Darnleys?
ELLIE. Nobody knows. Just fancy! He was found in an antique chest—
MRS HUSHABYE. A what?
ELLIE. An antique chest, one summer morning in a rose garden, after a night of the most terrible thunderstorm.
MRS HUSHABYE. What on earth was he doing in the chest? Did he get into it because he was afraid of the lightning?
ELLIE. Oh, no, no: he was a baby. The name Marcus Darnley was embroidered on his baby clothes. And five hundred pounds in gold.
MRS HUSHABYE [Looking hard at her]. Ellie!
ELLIE. The garden of the Viscount—
MRS HUSHABYE. —de Rougemont?
ELLIE [innocently]. No: de Larochejaquelin. A French family. A vicomte. His life has been one long romance. A tiger—
MRS HUSHABYE. Slain by his own hand?
ELLIE. Oh, no: nothing vulgar like that. He saved the life of the tiger from a hunting party: one of King Edward's hunting parties in India. The King was furious: that was why he never had his military services properly recognized. But he doesn't care. He is a Socialist and despises rank, and has been in three revolutions fighting on the barricades.
MRS HUSHABYE. How can you sit there telling me such lies? You, Ellie, of all people! And I thought you were a perfectly simple, straightforward, good girl.
