Kirke.  The rector of some dull hole in the north of England.

Sir George.  Really!

Kirke.  A bachelor; this Mrs Thorpe keeps house for him.  She’s a widow.

Sir George.  Really?

Kirke.  Widow of a captain in the army.  Poor thing!  She’s lately lost her only child and can’t get over it.

Sir George.  Indeed, really, really? . . . but about Cleeve, now—­he had Roman fever of rather a severe type?

Kirke.  In November.  And then that fool of a Bickerstaff at Rome allowed the woman to move him to Florence too soon, and there he had a relapse.  However, when she brought him on here the man was practically well.

Sir George.  The difficulty being to convince him of the fact, eh?  A highly-strung, emotional creature?

Kirke.  You’ve hit him.

Sir George.  I’ve known him from his childhood.  Are you still giving him anything?

Kirke.  A little quinine, to humour him.

Sir George.  Exactly. [Looking at his watch.] Where is she?  Where is she?  I’ve promised to take my wife shopping in the Merceria this morning.  By the bye, Kirke—­I must talk scandal, I find—­this is rather an odd circumstance.  Whom do you think I got a bow from as I passed through the hall of the Danieli last night? [Kirke grunts and shakes his head.] The Duke of St Olpherts.

Kirke. [Taking snuff.] Ah!  I suppose you’re in with a lot of swells now, Brodrick.

Sir George.  No, no; you don’t understand me.  The Duke is this young fellow’s uncle by marriage.  His Grace married a sister of Lady Cleeve’s —­of Cleeve’s mother, you know.

Kirke.  Oh!  This looks as if the family are trying to put a finger in the pie.

Sir George.  The Duke may be here by mere chance.  Still, as you say, it does look—­[Lowering his voice as Kirke eyes an opening door.] Who’s that?

Kirke.  The woman.

[Agnes enters.  She moves firmly but noiselessly—­a placid woman, with a sweet, low voice.  Her dress is plain to the verge of coarseness; her face, which has little colour, is, at the first glance almost wholly unattractive.]

Agnes. [Looking from one to the other.] I thought you would send for me, perhaps. [To sir George.] What do you say about him?

Kirke.  One moment. [Pointing to the balcony.] Mrs. Thorpe—­

Agnes.  Excuse me. [She goes to the window and opens it.]

Gertrude.  Oh, Mrs Cleeve! [Entering the room.] Am I in the way?

Agnes.  You are never that, my dear.  Run along to my room; I’ll call you in a minute or two. [Gertrude nods, and goes to the door.] Take off you hat and sit with me for a while.

Gertrude.  I’ll stay for a bit, but this hat doesn’t take off. [She goes out]