ST. OLPHERTS. Keep your temper, my dear.
AGNES. [Passionately.] His love may not last—it won't!—but at this moment he loves me better than that! He wouldn't make a mere light thing of me!
ST. OLPHERTS. Wouldn't he? You try him!
AGNES. What!
ST. OLPHERTS. You put him to the test!
AGNES. [With her hands to her brows.] Oh—!
ST. OLPHERTS. No, no—don't!
AGNES. [Faintly.] Why?
ST. OLPHERTS. I like you. Damn him—you deserve to live your hour!
[LUCAS enters with a letter in his hand. AGNES sits.]