MORELL (buoyantly). I know it, my lad. La Rochefoucauld said that
there are convenient marriages, but no delightful ones. You don't
know the comfort of seeing through and through a thundering liar
and rotten cynic like that fellow. Ha, ha! Now off with you to
the park, and write your poem. Half past one, sharp, mind: we
never wait for anybody.

MARCHBANKS (wildly). No: stop: you shan't. I'll force it into the
light.

MORELL (puzzled). Eh? Force what?

MARCHBANKS. I must speak to you. There is something that must be
settled between us.

MORELL (with a whimsical glance at the clock). Now?

MARCHBANKS (passionately). Now. Before you leave this room. (He
retreats a few steps, and stands as if to bar Morell's way to the
door.)

MORELL (without moving, and gravely, perceiving now that there is
something serious the matter). I'm not going to leave it, my dear
boy: I thought YOU were. (Eugene, baffled by his firm tone, turns
his back on him, writhing with anger. Morell goes to him and puts
his hand on his shoulder strongly and kindly, disregarding his
attempt to shake it off) Come: sit down quietly; and tell me what
it is. And remember; we are friends, and need not fear that
either of us will be anything but patient and kind to the other,