AGNES. Falling into the pit.
GERTRUDE. Marriage?
AGNES. The chocked-up, seething pit—until I found my bones almost through my skin and my voice too weak to travel across a room.
GERTRUDE. From what cause?
AGNES. Starvation, my dear. So, after lying in a hospital for a month or two, I took up nursing for a living. Last November I was sent for by Dr. Bickerstaff to go through to Rome to look after a young man who'd broken down there, and who declined to send for his friends. My patient was Mr. Cleeve—[taking up the tray]—and that's where his fortunes join mine. [She crosses the room, and puts the tray upon the cabinet.]
GERTRUDE. And yet, judging from what that girl said yesterday, Mr.
Cleeve married quite recently?
AGNES. Less than three years ago. Men don't suffer as patiently as women. In many respects his marriage story is my own, reversed—the man in place of the woman. I endured my hell, though; he broke the gates of his.
GERTRUDE. I have often seen Mr. Cleeve's name in the papers. His future promised to be brilliant, didn't it?
AGNES. [Tidying the table, folding the newspapers, &c.] There's a great career for him still.
GERTRUDE. In Parliament—now?