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?

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?