Nothing. They become curiously reticent.
AGNES. [Scornfully, as she is cutting a thread.] These noblemen!
LUCAS. [Taking a packet of letters from his pocket.] Finally, he
presented me with these, expressed a hope that he'd see much of me
during the week, and dismissed me with a fervent God bless you!
AGNES. [Surprised.] He remains here, then?
LUCAS. It seems so.
AGNES. What are those, dear?
LUCAS. The Duke has made himself the bearer of some letters, from
friends. I've only glanced at them: reproaches--appeals--
AGNES. Yes, I understand.
[He sits looking through the letters impatiently, then tearing them up
and throwing the pieces upon the table.]
LUCAS. Lord Warminster--my godfather: "My dear boy, for God's sake--!"
[Tearing up the letter and reading another.] Sir Charles Littlecote:
"Your brilliant future . . . blasted . . ." [Another letter.] Lord Froom:
"Promise of a useful political career unfulfilled . . . cannot an old
friend . . . ?" [Another letter.] Edith Heytesbury. I didn't notice a
woman had honoured me. [In an undertone.] Edie--![Slipping the letter
into his pocket and opening another.] Jack Brophy: "Your great career--"
Major Leete: "Your career--" [Destroying the rest of the letters
without reading them.] My career! my career! That's the chorus,
evidently.
Pages:
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37