Agnes.  Isn’t that the sketch you made of me in Florence?

Lucas. [Replacing it in the coat-pocket.] Yes.

Agnes.  You are carrying it about with you?

Lucas.  I slipped it into my pocket, thinking it might interest the
Duke.

Agnes. [Assisting him with his overcoat.] Surely I am too obnoxious in the abstract for your uncle to entertain such a detail as a portrait.

Lucas.  It struck me that it might serve to correct certain preconceived notions of my people’s.

Agnes.  Images of a beautiful temptress with peach-blossomed cheeks and stained hair?

Lucas.  That’s what I mean; they suspect a decline of taste on my part, of that sort.  Good-bye, dear.

Agnes.  Is this mission of the Duke of St Olpherts the final attempt to part us, I wonder? [Angrily, her voice hardening.] Why should they harass and disturb you as they do?

Lucas. [Kissing her.] Nothing disturbs me now that I know I and strong and well.  Besides, everybody will soon tire of being shocked.  Even conventional morality must grow breathless in the chase. [He leaves her.  She opens the other door and calls.]

Agnes.  Mrs. Thorpe!  I’m alone now. [She goes on to the balcony, through the centre window, and looks down below.  Gertrude enters, and joins her on the balcony.]

Gertrude.  How well your husband is looking!

Agnes.  Sir George Brodrick pronounces him quite recovered.

Gertrude.  Isn’t that splendid! [Waving her hand and calling.] Buon giorno, Signor Cleeve!  Come molto meglio voi state! [Leaving the balcony, laughing.] Ha, ha!  My Italian! [Agnes waves finally to the gondola below, returns to the room, and slips her arm through GERTRUDE’S.]

Agnes.  Two whole days since I’ve seen you.

Gertrude.  They’ve been two of my bad days, dear.

Agnes. [Looking into her face.] All right now?

Gertrude.  Oh, “God’s in his heaven” this morning!  When the sun’s out I feel that my little boy’s bed in Ketherick Cemetery is warm and cosy.

Agnes. [Patting GERTRUDE’S hand] Ah!—­

Gertrude.  The weather’s the same all over Europe, according to the papers.  Do you think it’s really going to last?  To me these chilly, showery nights are terrible.  You know, I still tuck my child up at night-time; still have my last peep at him before going to my own bed; and it is awful to listen to these cold rains—­drip, drip, upon that little green coverlet of his! [She goes and stands by the window silently.]

Agnes.  This isn’t strong of you, dear Mrs. Thorpe.  You mustn’t—­you mustn’t. [Agnes brings the tray with the cut flowers to the nearer table; calmly and methodically she resumes trimming the stalks.]