mustn't think of that. I--

PROSERPINE. (testily, crossing to the fire and standing at it
with her back to him). Oh, don't be frightened: it's not you.
It's not any one particular person.

MARCHBANKS. I know. You feel that you could love anybody that
offered--

PROSERPINE (exasperated). Anybody that offered! No, I do not.
What do you take me for?

MARCHBANKS (discouraged). No use. You won't make me REAL answers
--only those things that everybody says, (He strays to the sofa
and sits down disconsolately.)

PROSERPINE (nettled at what she takes to be a disparagement of
her manners by an aristocrat). Oh, well, if you want original
conversation, you'd better go and talk to yourself.

MARCHBANKS. That is what all poets do: they talk to themselves
out loud; and the world overhears them. But it's horribly lonely
not to hear someone else talk sometimes.

PROSERPINE. Wait until Mr. Morell comes. HE'LL talk to you.
(Marchbanks shudders.) Oh, you needn't make wry faces over him:
he can talk better than you. (With temper.) He'd talk your little
head off. (She is going back angrily to her place, when, suddenly
enlightened, he springs up and stops her.)