outlook. In the present instance, dear lady, it is your judgement which
is at fault.

AGNES. Mine?

ST. OLPHERTS. It is not I who fall into the error of confounding you
with the designing danseuse of commerce; it is, strangely enough, you
who have failed in your estimate of Mr. Lucas Cleeve.

AGNES. What is my estimate?

ST. OLPHERTS. I pay you the compliment of believing that you have
looked upon my nephew as a talented young gentleman whose future was
seriously threatened by domestic disorder; a young man of a certain
courage and independence, with a share of the brain and spirit of those
terrible human pests called reformers; the one gentleman, in fact, most
likely to aid you in advancing your vivacious social and political
tenets. You have such thoughts in your mind?

AGNES. I can't deny it.

ST. OLPHERTS. Ah! But what is the real, the actual Lucas Cleeve?

AGNES. Well--what is the real Lucas Cleeve?

ST OLPHERTS. Poor dear fellow! I'll tell you. [Going to the table to
deposit his cup there; while she watches him, her hand tightly clasped,
a frightened look in her eyes.] The real Lucas Cleeve. [Coming back to
her.] An egoist. An egoist.