GETRUDE.  You’re quite right.  That’s over.  Now, then, I’m going to gabble for five minutes gaily. [Settling herself comfortably in an armchair.] What jolly flowers you’ve got there!  What have you been doing with yourself?  Amos took me to the Caffe Quadri yesterday to late breakfast, to cheer me up.  Oh, I’ve something to say to you!  At the Caffe, at the next table to ours, there were three English people—­two men and a girl—­home from India, I gathered.  One of the men was looking out of the window, quizzing the folks walking in the Piazza, and suddenly he caught sight of your husband. [Agnes’ hands pause in their work.] “I do believe that’s Lucas Cleeve,” he said.  And then the girl had a peep, and said “Certainly it is.”  And the man said:  “I must find out where he’s stopping; If Minerva is with him, you must call.”  “Who’s Minerva?” said the second man.  “Minerva is Mrs. Lucas Cleeve,” the girl said, “it’s a pet name—­he married a chum of mine, a daughter of Sir John Steyning’s a year or so after I went out.”  Excuse me, dear.  Do these people really know you and your husband, or were they talking nonsense?

[Agnes takes the vase of faded flowers, goes onto the balcony, and empties the contents of the vase into the canal.  Then she stands by the window, her back towards Gertrude.]

Agnes.  No, they evidently know Mr. Cleeve.

Gertrude.  Your husband never calls you by that pet-name of yours.  Why is it you haven’t told me you’re a daughter of Admiral Steyning’s?

Agnes.  Mrs Thorpe—­

Gertrude. [Warmly.] Oh, I must say what I mean!  I have often pulled myself up short in my gossips with you, conscious of a sort of wall between us. [Agnes comes slowly from the window.] Somehow, I feel now that you haven’t in the least made a friend of me.  I’m hurt.  St’s stupid of me; I can’t help it.

Agnes. [After a moment’s pause.] I am not the lady these people were speaking of yesterday.

Gertrude.  Not—?

Agnes.  Mr. Cleeve is no longer with his wife; he has left her.

Gertrude.  Left—­his wife!

Agnes.  Like yourself, I am a widow.  I don’t know whether you’ve ever heard my name—­Ebbsmith. [Gertrude stares at her blankly.] I beg your pardon sincerely.  I never meant to conceal my true position; such a course is opposed to every true principle of mind.  But I grew so attached to you in Florence and—­well, it was contemptibly weak; I’ll never do such a thing again. [She goes back to the table and commences to refill the vase with the fresh flowers.]

Gertrude.  When you say that Mr. Cleeve has left his wife, I suppose you mean to tell me that you have taken her place?

Agnes.  Yes, I mean that.

[Gertrude rises and walks to the door.]

Gertrude [At the door.] You knew that I could not speak to you after hearing this?