OLPHERTS. I pay you the compliment of believing that you have
looked upon my nephew as a talented young gentleman whose future was
seriously threatened by domestic disorder; a young man of a certain
courage and independence, with a share of the brain and spirit of those
terrible human pests called reformers; the one gentleman, in fact, most
likely to aid you in advancing your vivacious social and political
tenets. You have such thoughts in your mind?
AGNES. I can't deny it.
ST. OLPHERTS. Ah! But what is the real, the actual Lucas Cleeve?
AGNES. Well--what is the real Lucas Cleeve?
ST OLPHERTS. Poor dear fellow! I'll tell you. [Going to the table to
deposit his cup there; while she watches him, her hand tightly clasped,
a frightened look in her eyes.] The real Lucas Cleeve. [Coming back to
her.] An egoist. An egoist.
AGNES. An egoist, Yes.
ST. OLPHERTS. Possessing ambition without patience, self-esteem without
self-confidence.
AGNES. Well?
ST. OLPHERTS. Afflicted with a desperate craving for the opium-like
drug, adulation; persistently seeking the society of those whose white,
pink-tipped fingers fill the pernicious pipe most deftly and
delicately. Eh?
AGNES. I didn't--Pray, go on.
ST. OLPHERTS. Ha! I remember they looked to his marriage to check his
dangerous fancy for the flutter of lace, the purr of pretty women.
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