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 unobserved 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.  My new career!  I’ll write under a nom de plume.  My books, Agnes, shall never ride to popularity on the back of a scandal.  Our life!  The mornings I must spend by myself, of course, shut up in my room.  In the afternoon we will walk together.  After dinner you shall hear what I’ve written in the morning; and then a few turns round our pretty garden, a glance at the stars with my arms round your waist—­[she stops abruptly, a look of horror on her face]—­while you whisper to me words of tenderness, words of—­[There is the distant sound of music from mandolin and guitar.] Ah! [To Agnes.] Keep your shawl over your shoulders. [Opening the window, and stepping out; the music becoming louder.] Some mandolinisti in a gondola. [Listening at the window, his head turned from her.] How pretty, Agnes!  Now, don’t those mere sounds, in such surroundings, give you a sensation of hatred for revolt and turmoil!  Don’t they conjure up alluringly pictures of peace and pleasure, of golden days and star-lit nights—­pictures of beauty and love?