AGNES. Lucas, the dressmaker in the Via Rondinelli at Florence--the
woman who ran up the little gown I have on now--

LUCAS. [With a smile] What of her?

AGNES. This has just come from her. Phuh! What does she mean by sending
that showy thing to me?

LUCAS. It is my gift to you.

AGNES. [Producing enough of the contents of the box to reveal a very
handsome dress.] This!

LUCAS. I knew Bardini had your measurements; I wrote to her,
instructing her to make that. I remember Lady Heytesbury in something
similar last season.

AGNES. [Examining the dress.] A mere strap for the sleeve, and
sufficiently decolletee, I should imagine.

LUCAS. My dear Agnes, I can't understand your reason fro trying to make
yourself a plain-looking woman when nature intended you for a pretty
one.

AGNES. Pretty!

LUCAS. [Looking hard at her.] You are pretty.

AGNES. Oh, as a girl I may have been--[disdainfully]--pretty. What
good did it do anybody? [Fingering the dress with aversion.] And when