LUCAS. No, dear, I daresay your "hardly" is nearer the mark.
AGNES. I assure you it is brilliant, Lucas.
LUCAS. What a wretch I am ever to find the smallest fault in you! Shall we dine out tonight?
AGNES. As you wish, dear.
LUCAS. At the Grunwald? [He goes to the table to pick up his manuscript; when his back is turned she looks at her watch quickly.] We'll solemnly toast this, shall we, in Montefiascone?
AGNES. [Eyeing him askance.] You are going out for your chocolate this afternoon as usual, I suppose?
LUCAS. Yes, but I'll look through your copy first, so that I can slip it into the post at once. You are not coming out?
AGNES. Not till dinner-time.
LUCAS. [Kissing her on the forehead.] I talked over the points of this —[tapping the manuscript]—with a man this morning; he praised some of the phrases warmly.
AGNES. A man? [In an altered tone.] The Duke?