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.]

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.]

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