GERTRUDE. I—I don't—Why?
LUCAS. By so frequently putting him to the inconvenience of avoiding me.
GERTRUDE. Oh, Mr. Cleeve, we—I—I—
LUCAS. Please tell your brother that I asked after him.
GERTRUDE. I—I can't; he—doesn't know I've—I've—
LUCAS. Ah! Really? [With a bow.] Good-bye. [He goes out, AGNES accompanying him to the door.]
GERTRUDE. [To herself.] Brute! [To AGNES.] Oh, I suppose Mr. Cleeve has made me look precisely as I feel.
AGNES. How?
GERTRUDE. Like people deserve to feel who do godly, mean things.
[FORTUNE appears.]