ST. OLPHERTS. In short, in intellect still nothing but a callow boy; in
body, nervous, bloodless, hysterical; in morals--an epicure.
AGNES. Have done! Have done!
ST. OLPHERTS. "Epicure" offends you. A vain woman would find
consolation in the word.
AGNES. Enough of it! Enough! Enough! [She turns away, beating her hands
together. The light in the room has gradually become subdued; the warm
tinge of sunset now colours the scene outside the window.]
ST. OLPHERTS. [With a shrug of his shoulders.] The real Lucas Cleeve.
AGNES. No, no! Untrue, untrue! [LUCAS enters. The three remain silent
for a moment.] The Duke of St. Olpherts calls in answer to a letter I
wrote to him yesterday. I wanted to make his acquaintance. [She goes
out.]
LUCAS. [After a brief pause.] By a lucky accident the tables were
crowded at Florian's; I might have missed the chance of welcoming you.
In God's name, Duke, why must you come here?
ST. OLPHERTS. [Fumbling in his pocket for a note.] In God's name? You
bring the orthodoxy into this queer firm, then, Lucas? [Handing the
note to LUCAS.] A peremptory summons.
LUCAS. You need not have obeyed it. [ST. OLPHERTS takes a cigarette
from his case and limps away.] I looked about for you just now. I
wanted to see you.