GERTRUDE. We'll go, Amos. [He takes from his pocket a small leather-bound book; the cover is well-worn and shabby.]
AMOS. [Writing upon the fly-leaf of the book with a pencil.] I am writing our address here, Mrs. Ebbsmith.
AGNES. [In a hard voice.] I already have it. [GERTRUDE glances at the book over AMOS'S shoulder, and looks at him wonderingly.]
AMOS. [Laying the book on the settee by AGNES' side.] You might forget it. [She stares at the book, with knitted brows, for a moment, then stretches out her hand and opens it.]
AGNES. [Withdrawing her hand sharply.] No—I don't accept your gift.
AMOS. The address of two friends is upon the fly-leaf.
AGNES. I thank both of you; but you shall never be troubled again by me. [Rising, pointing to the book.] Take that away! [Sitting facing the stove, the door of which she opens, replenishing the fire—excitedly.] Mr. Cleeve may be back soon; it would be disagreeable to you all to meet again. [GERTRUDE gently pushes AMOS aside, and picking up the book from the settee, places it upon the table.]
GERTRUDE. [To AGNES, pointing to the book.] This frightens you. Simple print and paper, so you pretend to regard it; but it frightens you. [With a quick movement, AGNES twists her chair round and faces GERTRUDE fiercely.] I called you a mad thing just now. A week ago I did think you half-mad—a poor, ill-used creature, a visionary, a moral woman living immorally; yet, in spite of all, a woman to be loved and pitied. But now I'm beginning to think you're only frail—wanton. Oh, you're not so mad as not to know you're wicked! [Tapping the book forcibly.] And so this frightens you.
AGNES. You're right! Wanton! That's what I've become! And I'm in my right senses, as you say. I suppose I was mad once for a little time, years ago. And do you know what drove me so? [Striking the book with her fist.] It was that—that!
GERTRUDE. That!