floor of that foul Roman hotel.  Malarial fever, of course!  Doctors don’t admit—­do they?—­that it’s possible for strong men to die of miserable marriages.  And yet I was dying in Rome, I truly believe, from my bitter, crushing disappointment, from the consciousness of my wretched, irretrievable—­[fortune enters, carrying Lucas’ hat, gloves, overcoat, and silk wrap, and upon a salver, a bottle of medicine and a glass.]

Lucas. [Sharply.] Qu’y a-t-il, Fortune?

Fortune.  Sir, you have an appointment.

Lucas. [Rising.] At the Danieli at eleven.  Is it so late? [Fortune places the things upon the table.  Lucas puts the wrap around his throat; Agnes goes to him and arranges it for him solicitously.]

Sir George. [Rising.] I have to meet Lady Brodrick at the Piazzetta. 
Let me take you in my gondola.

Lucas.  Thanks—­delighted.

Agnes. [To sir George.] I would rather Lucas went in the house gondola;
I know its cushions are dry.  May he take you to the Piazetta?

Sir George. [A little stiffly.] Certainly.

Agnes. [To fortune.] Mettez les coussins dans la gondole.

Fortune.  Bien, madame.

[Fortune goes out.  Agnes begins to measure a dose of medicine.]

Sir George. [To Agnes.] Er—­I—­ah—­

Lucas. [Putting on his gloves.] Agnes, Sir George—­

Agnes. [Turning to sir George, the bottle and glass in her hands.] Yes?

Sir George. [Constrainedly.] We always make a point of acknowledging the importance of nursing as an aid to medical treatment.  I—­I am sure Mr. Cleeve owes you much in that respect.

Agnes.  Thank you.

Sir George. [To Lucas.] I have to discharge my gondola; you’ll find me at the steps, Cleeve. [Agnes shifts the medicine bottle from one hand to the other so that her right hand may be free, but sir George simply bows in a formal way and moves towards the door.] You are coming with us, Kirke?

Kirke.  Yes.

Sir George.  Do you mind seeing that I’m not robbed by my gondolier? [He goes out.]

Agnes. [Giving the medicine to Lucas, undisturbed.] Here, dear.

Kirke. [To Agnes.] May I pop in tonight for my game of chess?

Agnes.  Do, doctor; I shall be very pleased.

Kirke. [Shaking her hand in a marked way.] Thank you. [He follows sir
George.]

Agnes. [Looking after him.] Liberal little man.

[She has Lucas’ overcoat in her hand:  a small pen-and-ink drawing of a woman’s hand drops from one of the pockets.  They pick it up together.]