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!