ST. OLPHERTS. Compact?
AGNES. Between serious man and woman.
ST. OLPHERTS. Serious woman.
AGNES. Ah! At least you must see that—serious woman. [Rising, facing him.] You can't fail to realise, even from this slight personal knowledge of me, that you are not dealing just now with some poor, feeble ballet-girl.
ST. OLPHERTS. But how well you put it! [Rising.] And how frank of you to furnish, as it were, a plan of the fortifications to the—the—
AGNES. Why do you stick at "enemy"?
ST. OLPHERTS. It's not the word. Opponent! For the moment, perhaps, opponent. I am never an enemy, I hope, where your sex is concerned.
AGNES. No, I am aware that you are not over-nice in the bestowal of your patronage—where my sex is concerned.
ST. OLPHERTS. You regard my appearance in an affair of morals as a quaint one?
AGNES. Your Grace is beginning to know me.