so few love affairs in the world. We all go about longing for
love: it is the first need of our natures, the loudest cry Of our
hearts; but we dare not utter our longing: we are too shy. (Very
earnestly.) Oh, Miss Garnett, what would you not give to be
without fear, without shame--

PROSERPINE (scandalized), Well, upon my word!

MARCHBANKS (with petulant impatience). Ah, don't say those stupid
things to me: they don't deceive me: what use are they? Why are
you afraid to be your real self with me? I am just like you.

PROSERPINE. Like me! Pray, are you flattering me or flattering
yourself? I don't feel quite sure which. (She turns to go back to
the typewriter.)

MARCHBANKS (stopping her mysteriously). Hush! I go about in
search of love; and I find it in unmeasured stores in the bosoms
of others. But when I try to ask for it, this horrible shyness
strangles me; and I stand dumb, or worse than dumb, saying
meaningless things--foolish lies. And I see the affection I am
longing for given to dogs and cats and pet birds, because they
come and ask for it. (Almost whispering.) It must be asked for:
it is like a ghost: it cannot speak unless it is first spoken to.
(At his normal pitch, but with deep melancholy.) All the love in
the world is longing to speak; only it dare not, because it is
shy, shy, shy. That is the world's tragedy. (With a deep sigh he
sits in the spare chair and buries his face in his hands.)

PROSERPINE (amazed, but keeping her wits about her--her point of