Gertrude.  What do you want—­wine?

[Agnes nods.  Gertrude pours out wine and gives her the glass.  Agnes drains it eagerly and replaces it.]

Gertrude.  Agnes—­

Agnes.  Yes?

Gertrude.  You are dressed very beautifully.

Agnes.  Do you think so?

Gertrude.  Don’t you know it?  Who made you that gown?

Agnes.  Bardini.

Gertrude.  I shouldn’t have credited the little woman with such excellent ideas.

Agnes.  Oh, Lucas gave her the idea when he—­when he—­

Gertrude.  When he ordered it?

Agnes.  Yes.

Gertrude.  Oh, the whole thing came as a surprise to you?

Agnes.  Er—­quite.

Gertrude.  I noticed the box this afternoon when I called.

Agnes.  Mr. Cleeve wishes me to appear more like—­more like—­

Gertrude.  An ordinary smart woman. [Contemptuously.] Well, you ought to find no difficulty in managing that.  You can make yourself very charming, it appears.

[Agnes again reaches out a hand towards the wine.  Gertrude pours a very little wine into the wine-glass and takes up the glass; Agnes holds out her hand to receive it.]

Gertrude.  Do you mind my drinking from your glass?

Agnes. [Staring at her.] No.

[Gertrude empties the glass and then places it, in a marked way, on the side of the table farthest from Agnes.]

Gertrude. [With a little shudder.] Ugh!  Ugh! [Agnes moves away from Gertrude, to the end of the settee, her head bowed, her hands clenched.] I have something to propose.  Come home with me tomorrow.

Agnes. [After a pause, raising her head.] Home—?

Gertrude.  Ketherick.  The very spot for a woman who wants to shut out things.  Miles and miles of wild moorland!  For company, purple heath and moss-covered granite, in summer; in winter, the moor-fowl and the snow glistening on top of the crags.  Oh, and for open-air music, our little church owns the sweetest little peal of bells—! [Agnes rises, disturbed.] Ah, I can’t promise you their silence!  Indeed, I’m very much afraid that on a still Sunday you can even hear the sound of the organ quite a long distance off.  I am the organist when I’m at home.  That’s Ketherick.  Will you come? [The distant tinkling of mandolin and guitar is again heard.]

Agnes.  Listen to that.  The mandolinisti!  You talk of the sound of your church organ, and I hear his music.

Gertrude.  His music?

Agnes.  The music he is fond of; the music that gives him the thoughts that please him, soothe him.

Gertrude. [Listening—­humming the words of the air, contemptuously:  “Bell’amore deh!  Porgi l’orecchio, ad un canto che parte del cuore . . .”] Love-music!