AGNES. Ha, ha, ha! A character—from him! ha, ha, ha!
SYBIL. [Her voice and manner softening.] Well, if there is pity in you, help us to get my husband back to London, to his friends, to his old ambitions.
AGNES. Ha, ha, ha, ha! your husband!
SYBIL. The word slips out. I swear to you that he and I can never be more to each other than companion figures in a masquerade. The same roof may cover us; but between two wings of a house, as you may know, there often stretches a wide desert. I despise him; he hates me. [Walking away, her voice breaking.] Only—I did love him once . . . I don't want to see him utterly thrown away—wasted . . . I don't quite want to see that . . . [AGNES rises and approaches SYBIL, fearfully.]
AGNES. [In a whisper.] Lift your veil for a moment. [SYBIL raises her veil.] Tears—tears—[with a deep groan]—Oh—! [SYBIL turns away.] I —I'll do it . . . I'll go back to the Palazzo . . . at once . . . [SYBIL draws herself up suddenly.] I've wronged you! Wronged you! O God! O God! [She totters away and goes into her bedroom. For a moment or two SYBIL stands still, a look of horror and repulsion upon her face. Then she turns and goes towards the outer door.]
SYBIL. [Calling.] Sandford! Sandford!
[SIR SANDFORD CLEEVE and the DUKE OF ST. OLPHERTS enter.]
SIR SANDFORD. [To SYBIL.] Well—?
SYBIL. She is going back to the Palazzo.
SIR SANDFORD. You mean that she consents to—?