Oh, when we are dining, or--
AGNES. Dining in a public place?
LUCAS. Why not look your best in a public place?
AGNES. Look my best? You know, I don't think of this sort of garment in
connection with our companionship, Lucas.
LUCAS. It is not an extraordinary garment for a lady.
AGNES. Rustle of silk, glare of arms and throat--they belong, to my
mind, to such a very different order of things from that we have set
up.
LUCAS. Shall I appear before you in ill-made clothes, clumsy boots--
AGNES. Why? We are just as we have always been, since we've been
together. I don't tell you that your appearance is beginning to offend.
LUCAS. Offend! Agnes, you--you pain me. I simply fail to understand
why you should allow our mode of life to condemn you to perpetual
slovenliness.
AGNES. Slovenliness!
LUCAS. No, no, shabbiness.
AGNES. [Looking down upon the dress she is wearing.] Shabbiness!
LUCAS. [With a laugh.] Forgive me, dear; I'm forgetting you are wearing
a comparatively new afternoon-gown.
AGNES. At any rate, I'll make this brighter tomorrow with some
trimmings willingly. [Pointing to the dressmaker's box.] Then you won't
insist on my decking myself out in rags of that kind--eh! There's
something in the idea--I needn't explain.
LUCAS. [Fretfully.
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