VALENTINE (returning to the end of the garden seat to confront her
more emphatically). Oh, yes, you are. My reason tells me so: my
knowledge tells me so: my experience tells me so.

GLORIA. Excuse my reminding you that your reason and your knowledge
and your experience are not infallible. At least I hope not.

VALENTINE. I must believe them. Unless you wish me to believe my
eyes, my heart, my instincts, my imagination, which are all telling me
the most monstrous lies about you.

GLORIA (the collectedness beginning to relax). Lies!

VALENTINE (obstinately). Yes, lies. (He sits down again beside
her.) Do you expect me to believe that you are the most beautiful woman
in the world?

GLORIA. That is ridiculous, and rather personal.

VALENTINE. Of course it's ridiculous. Well, that's what my eyes
tell me. (Gloria makes a movement of contemptuous protest.) No: I'm
not flattering. I tell you I don't believe it. (She is ashamed to find
that this does not quite please her either.) Do you think that if you
were to turn away in disgust from my weakness, I should sit down here
and cry like a child?

GLORIA (beginning to find that she must speak shortly and pointedly
to keep her voice steady). Why should you, pray?

VALENTINE (with a stir of feeling beginning to agitate his voice).