AGNES. You left Oxford a gambler and a spendthrift. A year or two in
town established you as an amiable, undisguised debauchee. The rest is
modern history.
ST. OLPHERTS. Complete your sketch. Don't stop at the--rude outline.
AGNES. Your affairs falling into disorder, you promptly married a
wealthy woman--the poor, rich lady who has for some years honoured you
by being your duchess at a distance. This burlesque of a marriage
helped to reassure your friends, and actually obtained for you an
ornamental appointment for which an over-taxed nation provides a
handsome stipend. But, to sum up, you must always remain an irritating
source of uneasiness to your own order, as, luckily, you will always be
a sharp-edged weapon in the hands of mine.
ST. OLPHERTS. [With a polite smile.] Yours! Ah, to that small, unruly
section to which I understand you particularly attach yourself. To
the--
AGNES. [With changed manner, flashing eyes, harsh voice, and violent
gestures.] The sufferers, the toilers; that great crowd of old and
young--old and young stamped by excessive labour and privation all of
one pattern--whose backs bend under burdens, whose bones ache and grow
awry, whose skins, in youth and in age, are wrinkled and yellow; those
from whom a fair share of the earth's space and of the light of day is
withheld.
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