Dick. What! Run off with my own sister?
Tom (staggering back to window). Sister?
Moselle. His sister! Ain't this jolly! O Dick! (Runs into his arms.) I'm just dying for a run.
Dick. Then, off we go. (Exit door C., with arm about Moselle.)
Tom. His sister! (Agnes sits L. of table, throws her arms on table, face on her arms.) Well, Tom Carew, you've struck bed-rock now, and no mistake. His sister; and there she is, grieving, because he's gone. (Comes down R.) And she hates me. "I had just begun to like your friend." Hang it! and I, like a blamed mule, have kicked over the pan, and scattered the dust. (Sits R. of table, puts his arms on it, looks at Agnes a moment, then puts his face down on his arms. Agnes looks up, smiling.)
Agnes (aside). He is a good fellow: only, as Dick says, he's in love. (Tom raises his head. She quickly drops hers, as before.)
Tom. I wish I could say something to comfort her; but no: she hates me. (Drops as before. She raises her head.)
Agnes. How nobly he has acted, good fellow! Better than that,—he's noble! (Tom moves. She drops her head. After a pause, both heads raised at the same time.)
Agnes (smiling). Have you been dreaming, Mr. Carew?
Tom. I wish I had.