Street to the unsavoury district of St. Luke's.

AGNES. Oh, yes.

ST. OLPHERTS. A depressin' building; the Iron Hall, Barker
Street--no--Carter Street.

AGNES. Precisely.

ST. OLPHERTS. We took our places amongst a handful of frowsy folks who
cracked nuts and blasphemed. On the platform stood a gaunt, white-faced
young lady resolutely engaged in making up by extravagance of gesture
for the deficiencies of an exhausted voice. "There," said one of my
companions, "that is the notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith." Upon which a person
near us, whom I judged from his air of leaden laziness to be a British
working man, blurted out, "Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith! Mad Agnes! That's
the name her sanguinary friends give her--Mad Agnes!" At that moment
the eye of the panting oratress caught mine for an instant, and you and
I first met.

AGNES. [Passing her hand across her brow, thoughtfully.]
Mad--Agnes . . . [To him, with a grim smile.] We have both been
criticised, in our time, pretty sharply, eh, Duke?

ST. OLPHERTS. Yes. Let that reflection make you more charitable to a
poor peer. [A knock at the door.]

AGNES. Entrez!

[FORTUNE and ANTONIO enter, ANTONIO carrying tea, &c., upon a tray.]