Gertrude.  Of course, it’s perfectly brutal to be underhanded.  But we’re leaving for home tomorrow; I couldn’t resist it.

Agnes. [Coldly.] Perhaps I’m very ungracious—­

Gertrude. [Taking Agnes’ hand.] The fact is, Mrs. Cleeve—­oh, what do you wish me to call you?

Agnes. [Withdrawing her hand.] Well—­you’re off tomorrow.  Agnes will do.

GETRUDE.  Thank you.  The fact is, it’s been a bad week with me—­ restless, fanciful.  And I haven’t been able to get you out of my head.

Agnes.  I’m sorry.

Gertrude.  Your story, your present life; you, yourself—­such a contradiction to what you profess!  Well, it all has a sort of fascination for me.

Agnes.  My dear, you’re simply not sleeping again. [Turning away.] You’d better go back to the ammonia Kirke prescribed for you.

Gertrude. [Taking a card from her purse, with a little, light laugh.] You want to physic me, do you, after worrying my poor brain as you’ve done? [Going to her.] “The Rectory, Daleham, Ketherick Moor.”  Yorkshire, you know.  There can be no great harm in your writing to me sometimes.

Agnes [Refusing the card.] No; under the circumstances I can’t promise that.

Gertrude. [Wistfully.] Very well.

Agnes. [Facing her.] Oh, can’t you understand that it can only be—­ disturbing to both of us for an impulsive, emotional creature like yourself to keep up acquaintanceship with a woman who takes life as I do?  We’ll drop each other, leave each other alone. [She walks away, and stands leaning upon the stove, her back towards Gertrude.]

Gertrude. [Replacing the card in her purse.] As you please.  Picture me, sometimes, in that big, hollow shell of a rectory at Ketherick, strolling about my poor dead little chap’s empty room.

Agnes. [Under her breath.] Oh!

Gertrude. [Turning to go.] God bless you.

Agnes.  Gertrude! [With altered manner.] You—­you have the trick of making me lonely also. [Going to Gertrude, taking her hands and fondling them.] I’m tired of talking to the walls!  And your blood is warm to me!  Shall I tell you, or not—­or not?

Gertrude.  Do tell me.

Agnes.  There is a man here, in Venice, who is torturing me—­flaying me alive.

Gertrude.  Torturing you?

Agnes.  He came here about a week ago; he is trying to separate us.

Gertrude.  You and Mr. Cleeve?

Agnes.  Yes.

Gertrude.  You are afraid he will succeed?

Agnes.  Succeed!  What nonsense you talk!

Gertrude.  What upsets you, then?

Agnes.  After all, it’s difficult to explain—­the feeling is so indefinite.  It’s like—­something in the air.  This man is influencing us both oddly.  Lucas is as near illness again as possible; I can hear his nerves vibrating.  And I—­you know what a fish-like thing I am as a rule—­just look at me now, as I’m speaking to you.