AGNES. I shall not fail you in that, Lucas.
LUCAS. And yet, whenever disturbing recollections come uppermost; when
I catch myself mourning for those lost opportunities of mine; it is
your love that must grant me oblivion--[kissing her upon the lips]--
your love! [She makes no response, and after a pause gently releases
herself and retreats a step or two.]
LUCAS. [His eyes following her.] Agnes, you seem to me to be changing
towards me, growing colder to me. At times you seem positively to
shrink from me. I don't understand it. Yesterday I thought I saw you
look at me as if I--frightened you!
AGNES. Lucas--Lucas dear, for some weeks, now, I've wanted to say this
to you.
LUCAS. What?
AGNES. Don't you think that such a union as ours would be much braver,
much more truly courageous, if it could but be--be--
LUCAS. If it could but be--what?
AGNES. [Averting her eyes.] Devoid of passion, if passion had no share
in it.
LUCAS. Surely this comes a little late, Agnes, between you and me.
AGNES. [Leaning upon the back of a chair, staring before her and
speaking in a low, steady voice.] What has been was inevitable, I
suppose. Still, we have hardly yet set foot upon the path we've agreed
to follow. It is not too late for us, in our own lives, to pit the
highest interpretation upon that word--Love.
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