Agnes.  Tsch!

St. Olpherts.  Tell me, when did you make up your mind to transform yourself?

Agnes.  Suddenly, after our interview this afternoon; after what you said—­

St. Olpherts.  Oh—!

Agnes. [With a little shiver.] An impulse.

St. Olpherts.  Impulse doesn’t account for the possession of those gorgeous trappings.

Agnes.  These rags?  A surprise gift from Lucas, today.

St. Olpherts.  Really, my dear, I believe I’ve helped to bring about my own defeat. [Laughing softly.] Ho, ho, ho!  How disgusted the Cleeve family will be!  Ha, ha! [Testily.] Come, why don’t you smile—­laugh?  You can afford to do so!  Show your pretty white teeth!  Laugh!

Agnes. [Hysterically.] Ha, ha, ha!  Ha!

St. Olpherts.  That’s better! [Pushing the cigarette-box towards him, she takes a cigarette and places it between her lips.  He also takes a cigarette gaily.  They smoke—­she standing, with an elbow resting upon the top of the stove, looking down upon him.]

St. Olpherts. [As he lights his cigarette.] This isn’t explosive, I hope?  No nitric and sulphuric acid, with glycerine—­eh? [Eyeing her wonderingly and admiringly.] By jove!  Which is you—­the shabby, shapeless rebel who entertained me this afternoon or—­[kissing the tips of his fingers to her]—­or that?

Agnes.  This—­this. [Seating herself, slowly and thoughtfully, facing the stove, her back turned to him.] My sex has found me out.

St. Olpherts.  Ha! tsch! [Between his teeth.] Damn it, for your sake I almost wish Lucas was a different sort of feller!

Agnes. [Partly to herself, with intensity.] Nothing matters now—­not even that.  He’s mine.  He would have died but for me.  I gave him life.  He is my child, my husband, my lover, my bread, my daylight—­all—­ everything.  Mine!  Mine!

St. Olpherts. [Rising and limping over to her.] Good luck, my girl.

Agnes.  Thanks!

St. Olpherts.  I’m rather sorry for you.  This sort of triumph is short-lived, you know.

Agnes. [Turning to him.] I know.  But I shall fight for every moment that prolongs it.  This is my hour.

St. Olpherts.  Your hour—?

Agnes.  There’s only one hour in a woman’s life.

St. Olpherts.  One—?

Agnes.  One supreme hour.  Her poor life is like the arch of a crescent; so many years lead up to that hour, so many weary years decline from it.  No matter what she may strive for, there is a moment when Circumstance taps her upon the shoulder and says “Woman, this hour is the best that Earth has to spare you.”  It may come to her in calm or in temper, lighted by a steady radiance or by the glitter of evil stars; but however it comes, be it good or evil, it is her hour—­let her dwell upon every second of it!