GERTRUDE. Well, Sir George?
AMOS. Perhaps Sir George has heard that Mrs. Cleeve holds regrettable
opinions on some points. If so, he may feel surprised that a parson's
sister--
GERTRUDE. Oh, I don't share all Mrs. Cleeve's views, or sympathise with
them, of course. But they succeed only in making me sad and sorry. Mrs.
Cleeve's opinions don't stop me from loving the gentle, sweet woman;
admiring her for her patient, absorbing devotion to her husband;
wondering at the beautiful stillness with which she seems to glide
through life--!
AMOS. [Putting down the newspaper, to SIR GEORGE and KIRKE.] I told you
so! [To GERTRUDE.] Gertrude, I'm sure Sir George and Dr. Kirke want to
be left together for a few minutes.
GERTRUDE. [Going up to the window.] I'll sun myself on the balcony.
AMOS. And I'll go and buy some tobacco. [To GERTRUDE.] Don't be long,
Gerty. [Nodding to SIR GEORGE and KIRKE] Good morning. [They return his
nod; and he goes out.]
GERTRUDE. [On the balcony.] Dr. Kirke, I've heard what doctors'
consultations consist of. After looking at the pictures, you talk about
whist. [She closes the windows and sits outside.]
KIRKE. [Producing his snuff-box.] Ha, ha!
SIR GEORGE. Why this lady and her brother evidently haven't any
suspicion of the actual truth, my dear Kirke!
KIRKE. [Taking snuff.] Not the slightest.
SIR GEORGE. The woman made a point of being extremely explicit with
you, you tell me?
KIRKE. Yes, she was plain enough with me. At our first meeting, she
said: "Doctor, I want you to know so-and-so, and so-and-so, and
so-and-so."
SIR GEORGE. Really? Well it certainly isn't fair of Cleeve and his--
his associate to trick decent people like Mrs Thorpe and her brother.
Good gracious, the brother is a clergyman too!
KIRKE. The rector of some dull hole in the north of England.
SIR GEORGE. Really!
KIRKE. A bachelor; this Mrs Thorpe keeps house for him. She's a widow.
SIR GEORGE. Really?
KIRKE. Widow of a captain in the army. Poor thing! She's lately lost
her only child and can't get over it.
SIR GEORGE. Indeed, really, really? . . . but about Cleeve, now--he
had Roman fever of rather a severe type?
KIRKE. In November. And then that fool of a Bickerstaff at Rome allowed
the woman to move him to Florence too soon, and there he had a relapse.
However, when she brought him on here the man was practically well.
SIR GEORGE. The difficulty being to convince him of the fact, eh? A
highly-strung, emotional creature?
KIRKE. You've hit him.
SIR GEORGE. I've known him from his childhood. Are you still giving him
anything?
KIRKE. A little quinine, to humour him.
SIR GEORGE. Exactly. [Looking at his watch.] Where is she? Where is
she? I've promised to take my wife shopping in the Merceria this
morning. By the bye, Kirke--I must talk scandal, I find--this is
rather an odd circumstance. Whom do you think I got a bow from as I
passed through the hall of the Danieli last night? [Kirke grunts and
shakes his head.] The Duke of St Olpherts.
KIRKE. [Taking snuff.] Ah! I suppose you're in with a lot of swells
now, Brodrick.
SIR GEORGE. No, no; you don't understand me. The Duke is this young
fellow's uncle by marriage. His Grace married a sister of Lady Cleeve's
--of Cleeve's mother, you know.
KIRKE. Oh! This looks as if the family are trying to put a finger in
the pie.
SIR GEORGE. The Duke may be here by mere chance. Still, as you say, it
does look--[Lowering his voice as KIRKE eyes an opening door.] Who's
that?
KIRKE. The woman.
[AGNES enters. She moves firmly but noiselessly--a placid woman, with
a sweet, low voice. Her dress is plain to the verge of coarseness; her
face, which has little colour, is, at the first glance almost wholly
unattractive.]
AGNES. [Looking from one to the other.] I thought you would send for
me, perhaps. [To SIR GEORGE.] What do you say about him?