PROSERPINE. Then hold your tongue.

MARCHBANKS. Yes: that is what it always comes to. We hold our
tongues. Does that stop the cry of your heart?--for it does cry:
doesn't it? It must, if you have a heart.

PROSERPINE (suddenly rising with her hand pressed on her heart).
Oh, it's no use trying to work while you talk like that. (She
leaves her little table and sits on the sofa. Her feelings are
evidently strongly worked on.) It's no business of yours, whether
my heart cries or not; but I have a mind to tell you, for all
that.

MARCHBANKS. You needn't. I know already that it must.

PROSERPINE. But mind: if you ever say I said so, I'll deny it.

MARCHBANKS (compassionately). Yes, I know. And so you haven't the
courage to tell him?

PROSERPINE (bouncing up). HIM! Who?

MARCHBANKS. Whoever he is. The man you love. It might be anybody.
The curate, Mr. Mill, perhaps.

PROSERPINE (with disdain). Mr. Mill!!! A fine man to break my
heart about, indeed! I'd rather have you than Mr. Mill.

MARCHBANKS (recoiling). No, really--I'm very sorry; but you