LUCAS. Er—yes.
AGNES. [With assumed indifference, replacing the lid on the dressmaker's box.] You have seen him again today, then?
LUCAS. We strolled about together for half an hour on the Piazza.
AGNES. [Replacing the cord round the box.] You—you don't dislike him as much as you did?
LUCAS. He's someone to chat to. I suppose one gets accustomed even to a man one dislikes.
AGNES. [Almost inaudibly.] I suppose so.
LUCAS. As a matter of fact, he has the reputation of being rather a pleasant companion; though I—I confess—I—I don't find him very entertaining. [He goes out. She stands staring at the door through which he has disappeared. There is a knock at the opposite door.]
AGNES. [Rousing herself.] Fortune! [Raising her voice.] Fortune! [The door opens, and GERTRUDE enters hurriedly.]
GERTRUDE. Fortune is complacently smoking a cigarette in the Campo.
AGNES. Mrs. Thorpe!