The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith | Page 7

regard marriage as indispensable to union.
We have done with it!
GERTRUDE. [Advancing to her.] You know that it would be
impossible for me, if I would do so, to deceive my brother as to all this.
AGNES. Why, of course, dear.
GERTRUDE. [Looking at her watch.] Amos must be wondering--

AGNES. Run away, then. [GERTRUDE crosses quickly to the door.]
GERTRUDE [Retracing a step or two.] Shall I see you--? Oh!
AGNES. [Shaking her head.] Ah!
GERTRUDE. [Going to her, constrainedly.] When Amos and I have
talked this over, perhaps--perhaps--
AGNES. No, I fear not. Come, my dear friend--[with a smile]--give me
a shake of the hand.
GERTRUDE. [Taking her hand.] What you've told me is dreadful.
[Looking into AGNES' face.] And yet you're not a wicked woman!
[Kissing AGNES.] In case we don't meet again. [The women separate
quickly, looking towards the door, as LUCAS enters.]
LUCAS. [Shaking hands with GERTRUDE.] How do you do, Mrs
Thorpe? I've just had a wave of the hand from your brother.
GERTRUDE. Where is he?
LUCAS. On his back in a gondola, a pipe in his mouth as usual, gazing
skywards. [Going on to the balcony.] He's within hail. [GERTRUDE
goes quickly to the door, followed by AGNES.] There! By the Palazzo
Sforza. [He re-enters the room; GERTRUDE has disappeared. He is
going towards the door.] Let me get hold of him, Mrs. Thorpe.
AGNES. [Standing before LUCAS, quietly] She knows, Lucas, dear.
LUCAS. Does she?
AGNES. She overheard some gossip at the Caffe Quadri yesterday, and
began questioning me; so I told her.
LUCAS. [Taking off his coat.] Adieu to them, then--eh?
AGNES. [Assisting him.] Adieu.

LUCAS. I intended to write to the brother directly they had left Venice,
to explain.
AGNES. Your describing me as "Mrs. Cleeve" at the hotel in Florence
helped to lead us into this; after we move from here I must always be,
frankly, "Mrs. Ebbsmith."
LUCAS. These were decent people. You and she had formed quite an
attachment?
AGNES. Yes.
[She places his coat, &c. on a chair, then fetches her work-basket from
the cabinet.]
LUCAS. There's something of the man in your nature, Agnes.
AGNES. I've anathematised my womanhood often enough. [She sits at
the table, taking out her work composedly.]
LUCAS. Not that every man possesses the power you have
acquired--the power of going through life with compressed lips.
AGNES. [Looking up, smiling.] A propos?
LUCAS. These people--this woman you've been so fond of. You see
them shrink away with the utmost composure.
AGNES. [Threading a needle.] You forget, dear, that you and I have
prepared ourselves for a good deal of this sort of thing.
LUCAS. Certainly, but at the moment--
AGNES. One must take care that the regret lasts no longer than a
moment. Have you seen your uncle?
LUCAS. A glimpse. He hadn't long risen.
AGNES. He adds sluggishness to other vices, then?

LUCAS. [Lighting a cigarette.] He greeted me through six inches of
open door. His toilet has its mysteries.
AGNES. A stormy interview?
LUCAS. The reverse. He grasped my hand warmly, declared I looked
the picture of health, and said it was evident I had been most admirably
nursed.
AGNES. [Frowning.] That's a strange utterance. But he's an eccentric,
isn't he?
LUCAS. No man has ever been quite satisfied as to whether his
oddities are ingrained or affected.
AGNES. No man. What about women?
LUCAS. Ho! They have had opportunities of closer observation.
AGNES. Hah! And they report--?
LUCAS. Nothing. They become curiously reticent.
AGNES. [Scornfully, as she is cutting a thread.] These noblemen!
LUCAS. [Taking a packet of letters from his pocket.] Finally, he
presented me with these, expressed a hope that he'd see much of me
during the week, and dismissed me with a fervent God bless you!
AGNES. [Surprised.] He remains here, then?
LUCAS. It seems so.
AGNES. What are those, dear?
LUCAS. The Duke has made himself the bearer of some letters, from
friends. I've only glanced at them: reproaches--appeals--
AGNES. Yes, I understand.

[He sits looking through the letters impatiently, then tearing them up
and throwing the pieces upon the table.]
LUCAS. Lord Warminster--my godfather: "My dear boy, for God's
sake--!" [Tearing up the letter and reading another.] Sir Charles
Littlecote: "Your brilliant future . . . blasted . . ." [Another letter.] Lord
Froom: "Promise of a useful political career unfulfilled . . . cannot an
old friend . . . ?" [Another letter.] Edith Heytesbury. I didn't notice a
woman had honoured me. [In an undertone.] Edie--![Slipping the letter
into his pocket and opening another.] Jack Brophy: "Your great
career--" Major Leete: "Your career--" [Destroying the rest of the
letters without reading them.] My career! my career! That's the chorus,
evidently. Well, there goes my career! [She lays her work aside and
goes to