and it would write a beautiful love letter for you straight off,
eh?

MARCHBANKS (seriously). I suppose a machine could be made to
write love-letters. They're all the same, aren't they!

PROSERPINE (somewhat indignantly: any such discussion, except by
way of pleasantry, being outside her code of manners). How do I
know? Why do you ask me?

MARCHBANKS. I beg your pardon. I thought clever people--people
who can do business and write letters, and that sort of thing--
always had love affairs.

PROSERPINE (rising, outraged). Mr. Marchbanks! (She looks
severely at him, and marches with much dignity to the bookcase.)

MARCHBANKS (approaching her humbly). I hope I haven't offended
you. Perhaps I shouldn't have alluded to your love affairs.

PROSERPINE (plucking a blue book from the shelf and turning
sharply on him). I haven't any love affairs. How dare you say
such a thing?

MARCHBANKS (simply). Really! Oh, then you are shy, like me. Isn't
that so?

PROSERPINE. Certainly I am not shy. What do you mean?

MARCHBANKS (secretly). You must be: that is the reason there are