Agnes. [Surprised.] He remains here, then?

Lucas.  It seems so.

Agnes.  What are those, dear?

Lucas.  The Duke has made himself the bearer of some letters, from friends.  I’ve only glanced at them:  reproaches—­appeals—­

Agnes.  Yes, I understand.

[He sits looking through the letters impatiently, then tearing them up and throwing the pieces upon the table.]

Lucas.  Lord Warminster—­my godfather:  “My dear boy, for God’s sake—!” [Tearing up the letter and reading another.] Sir Charles Littlecote:  “Your brilliant future . . . blasted . . .” [Another letter.] Lord Froom:  “Promise of a useful political career unfulfilled . . . cannot an old friend . . . ?” [Another letter.] Edith Heytesbury.  I didn’t notice a woman had honoured me. [In an undertone.] Edie—![Slipping the letter into his pocket and opening another.] Jack Brophy:  “Your great career—­” Major Leete:  “Your career—­” [Destroying the rest of the letters without reading them.] My career! my career!  That’s the chorus, evidently.  Well, there goes my career! [She lays her work aside and goes to him.]

Agnes.  Your career? [Pointing to the destroyed letters.] True that one is over.  But there’s the other, you know—­ours.

Lucas. [Touching her hand.] Yes, yes, Still, it’s just a little saddening, the saying good-bye—­[disturbing the scraps of paper]—­to all this.

Agnes.  Saddening, dear?  Why, this political career of yours—­think what it would have been at best?  Accident of birth sent you to the wrong side of the House; influence of family would always have kept you there.

Lucas. [Partly to himself.] But I made my mark.  I did make my mark.

Agnes.  Supporting the Party that retards; the Party that preserves for the rich, palters with the poor. [Pointing to the letters again.] Oh, there’s not much to mourn for there!

Lucas.  Still, it was—­success.

Agnes.  Success!

Lucas.  I was talked about, written about, as a Coming Man—­the Coming
Man!

Agnes.  How many “coming men” has one known?  Where on earth do they all go to?

Lucas.  Ah, yes, but I allowed for the failure, and carefully set myself to discover the causes of them.  And, as I put my fingers upon the causes and examined them, I congratulated myself and said “Well, I haven’t that weak point in my armour, or that;” and Agnes, at last I was fool enough to imagine I had no weak point, none whatever.

Agnes.  It was weak enough to believe that.