Agnes. [Sitting on the settee, staring before her, speaking to herself.] My marriage—­the early days of my marriage—­all over again!

Lucas. [Turning to her.] Eh? [Closing the window and coming to her, as the music dies away.] Tell me that those sounds thrill you.

Agnes.  Lucas—­

Lucas. [Sitting beside her.] Yes?

Agnes.  For the first few months of my marriage—­[Breaking off abruptly and looking into his face wonderingly.] Why, how young you seem to have become; you look quite boyish!

Lucas. [Laughing.] I believe that this return of our senses will make us both young again.

Agnes.  Both? [With a little shudder.] You know, I’m older than you.

Lucas.  Tsch!

Agnes. [Passing her hand through his hair.] Yes, I shall feel that now. [Stroking his brow tenderly.] Well—­so it has come to this.

Lucas.  I declare that you have colour in your cheeks already.

Agnes.  The return of my senses?

Lucas.  My dear Agnes, we’ve both been to the verge of madness, you and I—­driven there by our troubles. [Taking her hand.] Let us agree, in so many words, that we have completely recovered.  Shall we?

Agnes.  Perhaps mine is a more obstinate case.  My enemies called me mad years ago.

Lucas. [With a wave of the hand.] Ah, but the future, the future.  No more thoughts of reforming unequal laws from public platforms, no more shrieking in obscure magazines.  No more beating of bare knuckles against stone walls.  Come, say it!

Agnes. [With an effort.] Go on.

Lucas. [Looking before him—­partly to himself, his voice hardening.] I’ll never be mad again—­never. [Thrusting his head back.] By heavens! [To her, in an altered tone.] You don’t say it.

Agnes. [After a pause.] I—­I will never be mad again.

Lucas. [Triumphantly.] Hah! ha, ha! [She deliberately removes the shawl from her shoulders, and, putting her arms round his neck, draws him to her.] Ah, my dear girl!

Agnes. [In a whisper, with her head on his breast.] Lucas.

Lucas.  Yes?

Agnes.  Isn’t this madness?

Lucas.  I don’t think so.

Agnes.  Oh! oh! oh!  I believe, to be a woman is to be mad.

Lucas.  No, to be a woman trying not to be a woman—­that is to be mad. [She draws a long, deep breath, then, sitting away from him, resumes her shawl mechanically.]

Agnes.  Now, you promised me to run out to the Capello Nero to get a little food.

Lucas.  Oh, I’d rather—­

Agnes. [Rising.] Dearest, you need it.

Lucas. [Rising.] Well—­Fortune shall fetch my hat and coat.

Agnes.  Fortune!  Are you going to take all my work from me? [She is walking towards the door; the sound of his voice stops her.]