Lucas.  Agnes! [She returns.] A thousand thoughts have rushed through my brain this last hour or two.  I’ve been thinking—­my wife—­

Agnes.  Yes?

Lucas.  My wife—­she will soon get tired of her present position.  If, by-and-bye, there should be a divorce, there would be nothing to prevent our marrying.

Agnes.  Our—­marrying!

Lucas. [Sitting, not looking at her, as if discussing the matter with himself.] It might be to my advantage to settle again in London some day.  After all, scandals quickly lose their keen edge.  What would you say?

Agnes.  Marriage—­

Lucas.  Ah, remember, we’re rational beings for the future.  However, we needn’t talk about it now.

Agnes.  No.

Lucas.  Still, I assume you wouldn’t oppose it.  You would marry me if I wished it?

Agnes. [in a low voice.] Yes.

Lucas.  That’s a sensible girl!  By Jove, I am hungry! [He lights a cigarette as she walks slowly to the door, then throws himself idly back on the settee.]

Agnes. [To herself, in a whisper.] My old life—­my old life coming all over again! [She goes out.  He lies watching the wreaths of tobacco smoke.  After a moment or two fortune enters, closing the door carefully behind him.]

Lucas.  Eh?

Fortune. [After a glance round, dropping his voice.] Ze Duke of St. Olphert ’e say ’e vould like to speak a meenit alone. [Lucas rises, with a muttered exclamation of annoyance.]

Lucas.  Priez Monsieur le Duc d’entrer. [Fortune goes to the door and opens it.  The Duke of st. Olpherts enters; he is in evening dress.  Fortune retires.]

St. Olpherts.  Quite alone?

Lucas.  For the moment.

St. Olpherts.  My excuse to Mrs. Ebbsmith for not dining at the Grunwald —­it was a perfectly legitimate one, dear Lucas.  I really was expecting visitors.

Lucas. [Wonderingly.] Yes?

St. Olpherts. [With a little cough and a drawn face.] Oh, I am not so well tonight.  Damn these people for troubling me!  Damn ’em for keeping me hopping about!  Damn ’em for every shoot I feel in my leg.  Visitors from England—­they’ve arrived.

Lucas.  But what—?

St. Olpherts.  I shall die of gout some day, Lucas.  Er—­your wife is here.

Lucas.  Sybil!

St. Olpherts.  She’s come through with your brother.  Sandford’s a worse prig than ever—­and I’m in shockin’ pain.

Lucas.  This—­this is your doing?

St. Olpherts.  Yes.  Damn you, don’t keep me standing!

[Agnes enters with Lucas’s hat and coat.  She stops abruptly on seeing st. Olpherts.]