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!
AGNES. [With an effort.] Go on.
LUCAS. [Looking before him—partly to himself, his voice hardening.]
I'll never be mad again—never. [Thrusting his head back.] By heavens!
[To her, in an altered tone.] You don't say it.
AGNES. [After a pause.] I—I will never be mad again.
LUCAS. [Triumphantly.] Hah! ha, ha! [She deliberately removes the shawl from her shoulders, and, putting her arms round his neck, draws him to her.] Ah, my dear girl!