S (rather disgustedly, trotting back towards the fireplace). I
have no doubt you conducted the transaction as honestly as if you were
buying a pound of cheese. (He stops on the brink of the hearth-rug and
adds, thoughtfully, to himself, with his back turned to Morell) I could
only go to her as a beggar.

MORELL (starting). A beggar dying of cold--asking for her shawl?

MARCHBANKS (turning, surprised). Thank you for touching up my poetry.
Yes, if you like, a beggar dying of cold asking for her shawl.

MORELL (excitedly). And she refused. Shall I tell you why she refused?
I CAN tell you, on her own authority. It was because of--

MARCHBANKS. She didn't refuse.

MORELL. Not!

MARCHBANKS. She offered me all I chose to ask for, her shawl, her
wings, the wreath of stars on her head, the lilies in her hand, the
crescent moon beneath her feet--

MORELL (seizing him). Out with the truth, man: my wife is my wife: I
want no more of your poetic fripperies. I know well that if I have lost
her love and you have gained it, no law will bind her.

MARCHBANKS (quaintly, without fear or resistance). Catch me by the
shirt collar, Morell: she will arrange it for me afterwards as she did
this morning. (With quiet rapture.) I shall feel her hands touch me.

MORELL. You young imp, do you know how dangerous it is to say that to
me? Or (with a sudden misgiving) has something made you brave?

MARCHBANKS. I'm not afraid now. I disliked you before: that was why I
shrank from your touch. But I saw to-day--when she tortured you--that
you love her. Since then I have been your friend: you may strangle me
if you like.

MORELL (releasing him). Eugene: if that is not a heartless lie--if you
have a spark of human feeling left in you--will you tell me what has
happened during my absence?

MARCHBANKS. What happened! Why, the flaming sword--(Morell stamps with
impatience.) Well, in plain prose, I loved her so exquisitely that I
wanted nothing more than the happiness of being in such love. And
before I had time to come down from the highest summits, you came in.

MORELL (suffering deeply). So it is still unsettled--still the misery
of doubt.

MARCHBANKS. Misery! I am the happiest of men. I desire nothing now but
her happiness. (With dreamy enthusiasm.) Oh, Morell, let us both give
her up. Why should she have to choose between a wretched little nervous
disease like me, and a pig-headed parson like you? Let us go on a
pilgrimage, you to the east