AGNES. Why? We are just as we have always been, since we've been
together. I don't tell you that your appearance is beginning to offend.
LUCAS. Offend! Agnes, you--you pain me. I simply fail to understand
why you should allow our mode of life to condemn you to perpetual
slovenliness.
AGNES. Slovenliness!
LUCAS. No, no, shabbiness.
AGNES. [Looking down upon the dress she is wearing.] Shabbiness!
LUCAS. [With a laugh.] Forgive me, dear; I'm forgetting you are wearing
a comparatively new afternoon-gown.
AGNES. At any rate, I'll make this brighter tomorrow with some
trimmings willingly. [Pointing to the dressmaker's box.] Then you won't
insist on my decking myself out in rags of that kind--eh! There's
something in the idea--I needn't explain.
LUCAS. [Fretfully.] Insist! I'll not urge you again. [Pointing to the
box.] Get rid of it somehow. Are you copying that manuscript of mine?
AGNES. I had just finished it.
LUCAS. Already! [Taking up her copy.] How beautifully you write! [Going
to her eagerly.] What do you think of my Essay?
AGNES. It bristles with truth; it is vital.
LUCAS. My method of treating it?
AGNES. Hardly a word out of place.
LUCAS [Chilled.] Hardly a word?
AGNES. Not a word, in fact.
LUCAS. No, dear, I daresay your "hardly" is nearer the mark.
AGNES. I assure you it is brilliant, Lucas.
LUCAS. What a wretch I am ever to find the smallest fault in you! Shall
we dine out tonight?
AGNES. As you wish, dear.
LUCAS. At the Grunwald? [He goes to the table to pick up his
manuscript; when his back is turned she looks at her watch quickly.]
We'll solemnly toast this, shall we, in Montefiascone?
AGNES. [Eyeing him askance.] You are going out for your chocolate this
afternoon as usual, I suppose?
LUCAS. Yes, but I'll look through your copy first, so that I can slip
it into the post at once. You are not coming out?
AGNES. Not till dinner-time.
LUCAS. [Kissing her on the forehead.] I talked over the points of this
--[tapping the manuscript]--with a man this morning; he praised some
of the phrases warmly.
AGNES. A man? [In an altered tone.] The Duke?
LUCAS. Er--yes.
AGNES. [With assumed indifference, replacing the lid on the
dressmaker's box.] You have seen him again today, then?
LUCAS. We strolled about together for half an hour on the Piazza.
AGNES. [Replacing the cord round the box.] You--you don't dislike him
as much as you did?
LUCAS. He's someone to chat to. I suppose one gets accustomed even to a
man one dislikes.
AGNES. [Almost inaudibly.] I suppose so.
LUCAS. As a matter of fact, he has the reputation of being rather a
pleasant companion; though I--I confess--I--I don't find him very
entertaining. [He goes out. She stands staring at the door through
which he has disappeared. There is a knock at the opposite door.]
AGNES. [Rousing herself.] Fortune! [Raising her voice.] Fortune! [The
door opens, and GERTRUDE enters hurriedly.]
GERTRUDE. Fortune is complacently smoking a cigarette in the Campo.
AGNES. Mrs. Thorpe!
GERTRUDE. [Breathlessly.] Mr Cleeve is out, I conclude?
AGNES. No. He is later than usual going out this afternoon.
GERTRUDE. [Irresolutely.] I don't think I'll wait, then.
AGNES. But do tell me: you have been crossing the streets to avoid me
during the past week; what has made you come to see me now?
GERTRUDE. I would come. I've given poor Amos the slip; he believes I am
buying beads for the Ketherick school-children.