AGNES. A man? [In an altered tone.] The Duke?
LUCAS. Er--yes.
AGNES. [With assumed indifference, replacing the lid on the
dressmaker's box.] You have seen him again today, then?
LUCAS. We strolled about together for half an hour on the Piazza.
AGNES. [Replacing the cord round the box.] You--you don't dislike him
as much as you did?
LUCAS. He's someone to chat to. I suppose one gets accustomed even to a
man one dislikes.
AGNES. [Almost inaudibly.] I suppose so.
LUCAS. As a matter of fact, he has the reputation of being rather a
pleasant companion; though I--I confess--I--I don't find him very
entertaining. [He goes out. She stands staring at the door through
which he has disappeared. There is a knock at the opposite door.]
AGNES. [Rousing herself.] Fortune! [Raising her voice.] Fortune! [The
door opens, and GERTRUDE enters hurriedly.]
GERTRUDE. Fortune is complacently smoking a cigarette in the Campo.
AGNES. Mrs. Thorpe!
GERTRUDE. [Breathlessly.] Mr Cleeve is out, I conclude?
AGNES. No. He is later than usual going out this afternoon.
GERTRUDE. [Irresolutely.] I don't think I'll wait, then.
AGNES. But do tell me: you have been crossing the streets to avoid me
during the past week; what has made you come to see me now?
GERTRUDE.
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