honor in encounters with strange young men). Wicked people get
over that shyness occasionally, don't they?

MARCHBANKS (scrambling up almost fiercely). Wicked people means
people who have no love: therefore they have no shame. They have
the power to ask love because they don't need it: they have the
power to offer it because they have none to give. (He collapses
into his seat, and adds, mournfully) But we, who have love, and
long to mingle it with the love of others: we cannot utter a
word. (Timidly.) You find that, don't you?

PROSERPINE. Look here: if you don't stop talking like this, I'll
leave the room, Mr. Marchbanks: I really will. It's not proper.
(She resumes her seat at the typewriter, opening the blue book
and preparing to copy a passage from it.)

MARCHBANKS (hopelessly). Nothing that's worth saying IS proper.
(He rises, and wanders about the room in his lost way, saying) I
can't understand you, Miss Garnett. What am I to talk about?

PROSERPINE (snubbing him). Talk about indifferent things, talk
about the weather.

MARCHBANKS. Would you stand and talk about indifferent things if
a child were by, crying bitterly with hunger?

PROSERPINE. I suppose not.

MARCHBANKS. Well: I can't talk about indifferent things with my
heart crying out bitterly in ITS hunger.