LUCAS. Why not look your best in a public place?
AGNES. Look my best? You know, I don't think of this sort of garment in connection with our companionship, Lucas.
LUCAS. It is not an extraordinary garment for a lady.
AGNES. Rustle of silk, glare of arms and throat—they belong, to my mind, to such a very different order of things from that we have set up.
LUCAS. Shall I appear before you in ill-made clothes, clumsy boots—
AGNES. Why? We are just as we have always been, since we've been together. I don't tell you that your appearance is beginning to offend.
LUCAS. Offend! Agnes, you—you pain me. I simply fail to understand why you should allow our mode of life to condemn you to perpetual slovenliness.
AGNES. Slovenliness!
LUCAS. No, no, shabbiness.
AGNES. [Looking down upon the dress she is wearing.] Shabbiness!