MARCHBANKS (recoiling). No, really--I'm very sorry; but you mustn't
think of that. I--

PROSERPINE. (testily, crossing to the fire and standing at it with her
back to him). Oh, don't be frightened: it's not you. It's not any one
particular person.

MARCHBANKS. I know. You feel that you could love anybody that offered--

PROSERPINE (exasperated). Anybody that offered! No, I do not. What do
you take me for?

MARCHBANKS (discouraged). No use. You won't make me REAL answers--only
those things that everybody says. (He strays to the sofa and sits down
disconsolately.)

PROSERPINE (nettled at what she takes to be a disparagement of her
manners by an aristocrat). Oh, well, if you want original conversation,
you'd better go and talk to yourself.

MARCHBANKS. That is what all poets do: they talk to themselves out
loud; and the world overhears them. But it's horribly lonely not to
hear someone else talk sometimes.

PROSERPINE. Wait until Mr. Morell comes. HE'LL talk to you. (Marchbanks
shudders.) Oh, you needn't make wry faces over him: he can talk better
than you. (With temper.) He'd talk your little head off. (She is going
back angrily to her place, when, suddenly enlightened, he springs up
and stops her.)

MARCHBANKS. Ah, I understand now!

PROSERPINE (reddening). What do you understand?

MARCHBANKS. Your secret. Tell me: is it really and truly possible for a
woman to love him?

PROSERPINE (as if this were beyond all bounds). Well!!

MARCHBANKS (passionately). No, answer me. I want to know: I MUST know.
I can't understand it. I can see nothing in him but words, pious
resolutions, what people call goodness. You can't love that.

PROSERPINE (attempting to snub him by an air of cool propriety). I
simply don't know what you're talking about. I don't understand you.

MARCHBANKS (vehemently). You do. You lie--

PROSERPINE. Oh!

MARCHBANKS. You DO understand; and you KNOW. (Determined to have an
answer.) Is it possible for a woman to love him?

PROSERPINE (looking him straight in the face.) Yes. (He covers his face
with his hands.) Whatever is the matter with you! (He takes down his
hands and looks at her. Frightened at the tragic mask presented to her,
she hurries past him at the utmost possible distance, keeping her eyes
on his face until he turns from her and goes to the child's chair
beside the hearth, where he sits in the deepest dejection. As she
approaches the door, it opens and Burgess enters. On seei