ST. OLPHERTS. [With a little cough and a drawn face.] Oh, I am not so well tonight. Damn these people for troubling me! Damn 'em for keeping me hopping about! Damn 'em for every shoot I feel in my leg. Visitors from England—they've arrived.
LUCAS. But what—?
ST. OLPHERTS. I shall die of gout some day, Lucas. Er—your wife is here.
LUCAS. Sybil!
ST. OLPHERTS. She's come through with your brother. Sandford's a worse prig than ever—and I'm in shockin' pain.
LUCAS. This—this is your doing?
ST. OLPHERTS. Yes. Damn you, don't keep me standing!
[AGNES enters with LUCAS'S hat and coat. She stops abruptly on seeing
ST. OLPHERTS.]
ST. OLPHERTS. [By the settee—playfully, through his pain] Ah, my dear Mrs. Ebbsmith, how can you have the heart to deceive an invalid, a poor wretch who begs you—[sitting on the settee] to allow him to sit down for a moment? [AGNES deposits the hat and coat.]
AGNES. Deceive—?