LUCAS. At the Grunwald? [He goes to the table to pick up his manuscript; when his back is turned she looks at her watch quickly.] We'll solemnly toast this, shall we, in Montefiascone? AGNES. [Eyeing him askance.] You are going out for your chocolate this afternoon as usual, I suppose? LUCAS. Yes, but I'll look through your copy first, so that I can slip it into the post at once. You are not coming out? AGNES. Not till dinner-time. LUCAS. [Kissing her on the forehead.] I talked over the points of this --[tapping the manuscript]--with a man this morning; he praised some of the phrases warmly. 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. I would come. I've given poor Amos the slip; he believes I am buying beads for the Ketherick school-children. AGNES. [Shaking her head.] Ah, Mrs. Thorpe!-- GERTRUDE. Of course, it's perfectly brutal to be underhanded. But we're leaving for home tomorrow; I couldn't resist it. AGNES. [Coldly.] Perhaps I'm very ungracious-- GERTRUDE. [Taking AGNES' hand.] The fact is, Mrs. Cleeve--oh, what do you wish me to call you? AGNES. [Withdrawing her hand.] Well--you're off tomorrow. Agnes will do. GETRUDE. Thank you. The fact is, it's been a bad week with me-- restless, fanciful. And I haven't been able to get you out of my head. AGNES. I'm sorry. GERTRUDE. Your story, your present life; you, yourself--such a contradiction to what you profess! Well, it all has a sort of fascination for me. AGNES. My dear, you're simply not sleeping again. [Turning away.] You'd better go back to the ammonia Kirke prescribed for you.