SIR GEORGE. Exactly. [Looking at his watch.] Where is she? Where is she? I've promised to take my wife shopping in the Merceria this morning. By the bye, Kirke—I must talk scandal, I find—this is rather an odd circumstance. Whom do you think I got a bow from as I passed through the hall of the Danieli last night? [Kirke grunts and shakes his head.] The Duke of St Olpherts.
KIRKE. [Taking snuff.] Ah! I suppose you're in with a lot of swells now, Brodrick.
SIR GEORGE. No, no; you don't understand me. The Duke is this young fellow's uncle by marriage. His Grace married a sister of Lady Cleeve's —of Cleeve's mother, you know.
KIRKE. Oh! This looks as if the family are trying to put a finger in the pie.
SIR GEORGE. The Duke may be here by mere chance. Still, as you say, it does look—[Lowering his voice as KIRKE eyes an opening door.] Who's that?
KIRKE. The woman.
[AGNES enters. She moves firmly but noiselessly—a placid woman, with a sweet, low voice. Her dress is plain to the verge of coarseness; her face, which has little colour, is, at the first glance almost wholly unattractive.]
AGNES. [Looking from one to the other.] I thought you would send for me, perhaps. [To SIR GEORGE.] What do you say about him?
KIRKE. One moment. [Pointing to the balcony.] Mrs. Thorpe—
AGNES. Excuse me. [She goes to the window and opens it.]