AGNES. [Looking at him fixedly.] Make yourself clearer.
ST. OLPHERTS. You have accused me, Mrs. Ebbsmith, of narrowness of
outlook. In the present instance, dear lady, it is your judgement which
is at fault.
AGNES. Mine?
ST. OLPHERTS. It is not I who fall into the error of confounding you
with the designing danseuse of commerce; it is, strangely enough, you
who have failed in your estimate of Mr. Lucas Cleeve.
AGNES. What is my estimate?
ST. OLPHERTS. I pay you the compliment of believing that you have
looked upon my nephew as a talented young gentleman whose future was
seriously threatened by domestic disorder; a young man of a certain
courage and independence, with a share of the brain and spirit of those
terrible human pests called reformers; the one gentleman, in fact, most
likely to aid you in advancing your vivacious social and political
tenets. You have such thoughts in your mind?
AGNES. I can't deny it.
ST. OLPHERTS. Ah! But what is the real, the actual Lucas Cleeve?
AGNES. Well--what is the real Lucas Cleeve?
ST OLPHERTS. Poor dear fellow! I'll tell you. [Going to the table to
deposit his cup there; while she watches him, her hand tightly clasped,
a frightened look in her eyes.] The real Lucas Cleeve. [Coming back to
her.] An egoist. An egoist.
AGNES. An egoist, Yes.
ST. OLPHERTS. Possessing ambition without patience, self-esteem without
self-confidence.
AGNES. Well?
ST. OLPHERTS. Afflicted with a desperate craving for the opium-like
drug, adulation; persistently seeking the society of those whose white,
pink-tipped fingers fill the pernicious pipe most deftly and
delicately. Eh?
AGNES. I didn't--Pray, go on.
ST. OLPHERTS. Ha! I remember they looked to his marriage to check his
dangerous fancy for the flutter of lace, the purr of pretty women. And
now, here, he is--loose again.