MARCHBANKS. Ah, I understand now!

PROSERPINE (reddening). What do you understand?

MARCHBANKS. Your secret. Tell me: is it really and truly possible
for a woman to love him?

PROSERPINE (as if this were beyond all bounds). Well!!

MARCHBANKS (passionately). No, answer me. I want to know: I MUST
know. I can't understand it. I can see nothing in him but words,
pious resolutions, what people call goodness. You can't love
that.

PROSERPINE (attempting to snub him by an air of cool propriety).
I simply don't know what you're talking about. I don't understand
you.

MARCHBANKS (vehemently). You do. You lie--

PROSERPINE. Oh!

MARCHBANKS. You DO understand; and you KNOW. (Determined to have
an answer.) Is it possible for a woman to love him?

PROSERPINE (looking him straight in the face. Yes. (He covers his
face with his hands.) Whatever is the matter with you! (He takes
down his hands and looks at her. Frightened at the tragic mask
presented to her, she hurries past him at the utmost possible
distance, keeping her eyes on his face until he turns from her