incompetence. Mrs. Morell's quite right.

CANDIDA. Of course she is. (She takes up her handbag.) And now I
must leave you to James for the present. I suppose you are too
much of a poet to know the state a woman finds her house in when
she's been away for three weeks. Give me my rug. (Eugene takes
the strapped rug from the couch, and gives it to her. She takes
it in her left hand, having the bag in her right.) Now hang my
cloak across my arm. (He obeys.) Now my hat. (He puts it into the
hand which has the bag.) Now open the door for me. (He hurries up
before her and opens the door.) Thanks. (She goes out; and
Marchbanks shuts the door.)

MORELL (still busy at the table). You'll stay to lunch,
Marchbanks, of course.

MARCHBANKS (scared). I mustn't. (He glances quickly at Morell,
but at once avoids his frank look, and adds, with obvious
disingenuousness) I can't.

MORELL (over his shoulder). You mean you won't.

MARCHBANKS (earnestly). No: I should like to, indeed. Thank you
very much. But--but--

MORELL (breezily, finishing with the letters and coming close to
him). But--but--but--but--bosh! If you'd like to stay, stay. You
don't mean to persuade me you have anything else to do. If you're
shy, go and take a turn in the park and write poetry until half
past one; and then come in and have a good feed.