Part 16 (1/2)

LUCAS. Oh, my dear girl--!

AGNES. [Throwing her cigarette under the stove.] I'm quite myself again, Lucas dear. Watch me--look! [Walking firmly.]

LUCAS. No trembling?

AGNES. Not a flutter. [Watching her open hand.] My hand is absolutely steady. [He takes her hand and kisses it upon the palm.] Ah!--

LUCAS. [Looking at her hand.] No, it is shaking.

AGNES. Yes, when you--when you--oh, Lucas!--[She sinks into a chair, turning her back upon him, and covering her face with her hands; her shoulders heaving.]

LUCAS. [Going to her.] Agnes dear!

AGNES. [Taking out her handkerchief.] Let me--let me--

LUCAS. [Bending over her.] I've never seen you--

AGNES. No, I've never been a crying woman. But some great change has befallen me, I believe. What is it? That swoon--it wasn't mere faintness, giddiness; it was this change coming over me!

LUCAS. You are not unhappy?

AGNES. [Wiping her eyes.] No, I--I don't think I am. Isn't that strange?

LUCAS. My dearest, I'm happy to hear you say that, for you've made me very happy.

AGNES. Because I--

LUCAS. Because you love me--naturally, that's one great reason.

AGNES. I have always loved you.

LUCAS. But never so utterly, so absorbingly, as you confess you do now.

Do you fully realise what your confession does? It strikes off the shackles from me, from us--sets us free. [With a gesture of freedom.]

Oh, my dear Agnes, free!

AGNES. [Staring at him.] Free?

LUCAS. Free from the burden of that crazy plan of ours of trumpeting our relations to the world. Forgive me--crazy is the only word for it.

Thank heaven, we've at last admitted to each other that we're ordinary man and woman! Of course, I was ill--off my head. I didn't know what I was entering upon. And you, dear--living a pleasureless life, letting your thoughts dwell constantly on old troubles; that is how cranks are made. Now that I'm strong again, body and mind, I can protect you, keep you right. Ha, ha! What were we to pose as? Examples of independent thought and action! [Laughing.] Oh my darling, well be independent in thought and action still; but we won't make examples of ourselves--eh?

AGNES. [Who has been watching him with wide-open eyes.] Do you mean that all idea of our writing together, working together, defending our position, and the position of such as ourselves, before the world, is to be abandoned?

LUCAS. Why, of course.

AGNES. I--I didn't mean quite that.

LUCAS. Oh, come, come! We'll furl what my uncle calls the banner of Free Union finally. [Going to her and kissing her hair lightly.] For the future, mere man and woman. [Pacing the room excitedly.] The future! I've settled everything already. The work shall fall wholly on my shoulders. My poor girl, you shall enjoy a little rest and pleasure.

AGNES. [In a low voice.] Rest and pleasure--

LUCAS. We'll remain abroad. One can live un.o.bserved abroad, without actually hiding. [She rises slowly.] We'll find an ideal retreat. No more English tourists prying around us! And there, in some beautiful spot, alone except for your company, I'll work! [As he paces the room, she walks slowly to and fro, listening, staring before her.] I'll work.