AGNES. Your wife; the woman I have wronged, who came here tonight, and —spared me. Oh, go!
LUCAS. Not like this, Agnes! not like this!
AGNES. [Appealingly.] Gertrude! [LUCAS looks round—first at GERTRUDE then at AMOS—and, with a hard smile upon his face, turns to go. Suddenly AGNES touches his sleeve.] Lucas, when you have learnt to pray again, I will remember you, every day of my life.
LUCAS. [Staring at her.] Pray! . . . you! . . .
[She inclines her head twice, slowly; without another word he walks away and goes out. AGNES sinks upon the settee; AMOS and GERTRUDE remain, stiffly and silently, in the attitude of people who are waiting for the departure of a disagreeable person.]
ST. OLPHERTS. [After watching LUCAS'S departure.] Now I wonder whether, if he hurried to his wife at this moment, repentant, and begged her to relent—I wonder whether—whether she would—whether—[looking at AMOS and GERTRUDE, a little disconcerted]—I beg your pardon—You're not interested?
AMOS. Frankly, we are not.
ST. OLPHERTS. No; other people's affairs are tedious. [Producing his gloves.] Well! A week in Venice—and the weather has been delightful. [Shaking hands with GERTRUDE, whose expression remains unchanged.] A pleasant journey! [Going to AGNES, offering his hand.] Mrs. Ebbsmith—? [She lifts her maimed hand.] Ah! An accident? [She nods wearily.] I'm sorry . . . I . . .
[He turns away and goes out, bowing to AMOS as he passes.]