Agnes.  Lucas, the dressmaker in the Via Rondinelli at Florence—­the woman who ran up the little gown I have on now—­

Lucas. [With a smile] What of her?

Agnes.  This has just come from her.  Phuh!  What does she mean by sending that showy thing to me?

Lucas.  It is my gift to you.

Agnes. [Producing enough of the contents of the box to reveal a very handsome dress.] This!

Lucas.  I knew Bardini had your measurements; I wrote to her, instructing her to make that.  I remember Lady Heytesbury in something similar last season.

Agnes. [Examining the dress.] A mere strap for the sleeve, and sufficiently decolletee, I should imagine.

Lucas.  My dear Agnes, I can’t understand your reason fro trying to make yourself a plain-looking woman when nature intended you for a pretty one.

Agnes.  Pretty!

Lucas. [Looking hard at her.] You are pretty.

Agnes.  Oh, as a girl I may have been—­[disdainfully]—­pretty.  What good did it do anybody? [Fingering the dress with aversion.] And when would you have me hang this on my bones?

Lucas.  Oh, when we are dining, or—­

Agnes.  Dining in a public place?

Lucas.  Why not look your best in a public place?

Agnes.  Look my best?  You know, I don’t think of this sort of garment in connection with our companionship, Lucas.

Lucas.  It is not an extraordinary garment for a lady.

Agnes.  Rustle of silk, glare of arms and throat—­they belong, to my mind, to such a very different order of things from that we have set up.

Lucas.  Shall I appear before you in ill-made clothes, clumsy boots—­

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?