AGNES. [Partly to herself, with intensity.] Nothing matters now—not even that. He's mine. He would have died but for me. I gave him life. He is my child, my husband, my lover, my bread, my daylight—all— everything. Mine! Mine!
ST. OLPHERTS. [Rising and limping over to her.] Good luck, my girl.
AGNES. Thanks!
ST. OLPHERTS. I'm rather sorry for you. This sort of triumph is short-lived, you know.
AGNES. [Turning to him.] I know. But I shall fight for every moment that prolongs it. This is my hour.
ST. OLPHERTS. Your hour—?
AGNES. There's only one hour in a woman's life.
ST. OLPHERTS. One—?
AGNES. One supreme hour. Her poor life is like the arch of a crescent; so many years lead up to that hour, so many weary years decline from it. No matter what she may strive for, there is a moment when Circumstance taps her upon the shoulder and says "Woman, this hour is the best that Earth has to spare you." It may come to her in calm or in temper, lighted by a steady radiance or by the glitter of evil stars; but however it comes, be it good or evil, it is her hour—let her dwell upon every second of it!
ST. OLPHERTS. And this little victory of yours—the possession of this man; you think this is the best that Earth can spare you? [She nods slowly and deliberately, with fixed eyes.] Dear me, how amusin' you women are! And in your dowdy days you had ambitions? [She looks at him suddenly.] They were of a queer, gunpowder-and-faggot sort—but they were ambitions.