Lucas.  Resign yourself?  Has life with me become so distasteful?

Agnes.  Has it?  Think!  Why, when I realised the actual terms of our companionship—­why didn’t I go on my own way stoically?  Why don’t I go at this very moment?

Lucas.  You really love me, do you mean—­as simple, tender women are content to love? [She looks at him, nods slowly, then turns away and droops over the table.  He raises her, and takes her in his arms.] My dear girl!  My dear, cold, warm-hearted girl!  Ha!  You couldn’t bear to see me packed up in one of the Duke’s travelling boxes and borne back to London—­eh! [She shakes her head; her lips form the word “No".] No fear of that, my—­my sweetheart!

Agnes. [Gently pushing him from her.] Quick—­dress—­take me out.

Lucas.  You are shivering—­get your thickest wrap.

Agnes.  That heavy brown cloak of mine?

Lucas.  Yes.

Agnes.  It’s an old friend, but—­dreadfully shabby.  You will be ashamed of me again.

Lucas.  Ashamed—!

Agnes.  I’ll write to Bardini about a new one tomorrow.  I won’t oppose you—­I won’t repel you any more.

Lucas.  Repel me!  I only urged you to reveal yourself as what you are—­ a beautiful woman.

Agnes.  Ah!  Am I—­that?

Lucas. [Kissing her.] Beautiful—­beautiful!

Agnes. [With a gesture of abandonment.] I’m—­glad. [She leaves him and goes out.  He looks after her for a moment thoughtfully, then suddenly passes his hands across his brow and opens his arms widely as if casting a burden from him.]

Lucas.  Oh!—­oh! [Turning away alertly.] Fortune—­

END OF THE SECOND ACT

THE THIRD ACT

[The Scene is the same as before, but it is evening, and the lamps are lighted within the room, while outside it is bright moonlight.]

[Agnes, dressed as at the end of the preceding Act, is lying upon the settee propped up by pillows.  A pretty silk shawl, with which she plays restlessly, is over her shoulders.  Her face is pale, but her eyes glitter, and her voice has a bright ring in it.  Kirke is seated at a table writing.  Gertrude, without hat or mantle, is standing behind the settee, looking down smilingly upon Agnes.]

Kirke. [Writing.] H’m—­[To Agnes.] Are you often guilty of this sort of thing?

Agnes. [Laughing.] I’ve never fainted before in my life; I don’t mean to do so again.

Kirke. [Writing.] Should you alter your mind about that, do select a suitable spot on the next occasion.  What was it your head came against?

Gertrude.  A wooden chest, Mr. Cleeve thinks.

Agnes.  With beautiful, rusty, iron clamps. [Putting her hand to her head, and addressing Gertrude.] The price of vanity.