ugh to believe that.

LUCAS. I couldn't foresee that I was doomed to pay the price all
nervous men pay for success; that the greater my success became, the
more cancer-like grew the fear of never being able to continue it, to
excel it; that the triumph of today was always to be the torture of
tomorrow! Oh, Agnes, the agony of success to a nervous, sensitive man;
the dismal apprehension that fills his life and gives each victory a
voice to cry out "Hear, hear! Bravo, bravo, bravo! But this is to be
your last--you'll never overtop it!" Ha, yes! I soon found out the
weak spot in my armour--the need of constant encouragement, constant
reminder of my powers; [taking her hand] the need of that subtle
sympathy which a sacrificing, unselfish woman alone possesses the
secret of. [Rising.] Well, my very weakness might have been a source of
greatness if, three years ago, it had been to such a woman that I had
bound myself--a woman of your disposition; instead of to--! Ah! [She
lays her hand upon his arm soothingly.]

LUCAS. Yes, yes. [Taking her in his arms.] I know I have such a
companion now.

AGNES. Yes--now--

LUCAS. You must be everything to me, Agnes--a double faculty, as it
were. When my confidence in myself is shaken, you must try to keep the
consciousness of my poor powers alive in me.

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
supp