SHE. I have lost your poems.

HE. They were unworthy of you. I will write you some more.

SHE. No, thank you. Never any more poems for me. Oh, how could I
have been so mad! so rash! so imprudent!

HE. Thank Heaven for your madness, your rashness, your
imprudence!

SHE [impatiently] Oh, be sensible, Henry. Can't you see what a
terrible thing this is for me? Suppose anybody finds these poems!
what will they think?

HE. They will think that a man once loved a woman more devotedly
than ever man loved woman before. But they will not know what man
it was.

SHE. What good is that to me if everybody will know what woman it
was?

HE. But how will they know?

SHE. How will they know! Why, my name is all over them: my silly,
unhappy name. Oh, if I had only been christened Mary Jane, or
Gladys Muriel, or Beatrice, or Francesca, or Guinevere, or
something quite common! But Aurora! Aurora! I'm the only Aurora
in London; and everybody knows it. I believe I'm the only Aurora
in the world. And it's so horribly easy to rhyme to it! Oh,