AGNES. Mr. Cleeve wishes me to appear more like—more like—
GERTRUDE. An ordinary smart woman. [Contemptuously.] Well, you ought to find no difficulty in managing that. You can make yourself very charming, it appears.
[AGNES again reaches out a hand towards the wine. GERTRUDE pours a very little wine into the wine-glass and takes up the glass; AGNES holds out her hand to receive it.]
GERTRUDE. Do you mind my drinking from your glass?
AGNES. [Staring at her.] No.
[GERTRUDE empties the glass and then places it, in a marked way, on the side of the table farthest from AGNES.]
GERTRUDE. [With a little shudder.] Ugh! Ugh! [AGNES moves away from GERTRUDE, to the end of the settee, her head bowed, her hands clenched.] I have something to propose. Come home with me tomorrow.
AGNES. [After a pause, raising her head.] Home—?
GERTRUDE. Ketherick. The very spot for a woman who wants to shut out things. Miles and miles of wild moorland! For company, purple heath and moss-covered granite, in summer; in winter, the moor-fowl and the snow glistening on top of the crags. Oh, and for open-air music, our little church owns the sweetest little peal of bells—! [AGNES rises, disturbed.] Ah, I can't promise you their silence! Indeed, I'm very much afraid that on a still Sunday you can even hear the sound of the organ quite a long distance off. I am the organist when I'm at home. That's Ketherick. Will you come? [The distant tinkling of mandolin and guitar is again heard.]
AGNES. Listen to that. The mandolinisti! You talk of the sound of your church organ, and I hear his music.