SIR GEORGE. Your mother's gout has been rather stubborn lately.

LUCAS. Very likely she and my brother Sandford will get to hear of your
visit to me here; in that case you'll be questioned pretty closely,
naturally.

SIR GEORGE. My position is certainly a little delicate.

LUCAS. Oh you may be perfectly open with my people as to my present
mode of life. Only--[He motions SIR GEORGE to be seated; they sit
facing each other.] Only I want you hear me declare again plainly
[looking towards AGNES] that but for the care and devotion of that good
woman over there, but for the solace of that woman's companionship, I
should have been dead months ago--I should have died raving in my
awful bedroom on the ground floor of that foul Roman hotel. Malarial
fever, of course! Doctors don't admit--do they?--that it's possible
for strong men to die of miserable marriages. And yet I was dying in
Rome, I truly believe, from my bitter, crushing disappointment, from
the consciousness of my wretched, irretrievable--[FORTUNE enters,
carrying LUCAS' hat, gloves, overcoat, and silk wrap, and upon a
salver, a bottle of medicine and a glass.]

LUCAS. [Sharply.] Qu'y a-t-il, Fortune?

FORTUNE. Sir, you have an appointment.

LUCAS. [Rising.] At the Danieli at eleven. Is it so late? [FORTUNE
places the things upon the table. LUCAS puts the wrap around his
throat; AGNES goes to him and arranges it for him solicitously.]