-organ. Nothing to do but turn the handle, and it would write a
beautiful love letter for you straight off, eh?

MARCHBANKS (seriously). I suppose a machine could be made to write
love-letters. They're all the same, aren't they!

PROSERPINE (somewhat indignantly: any such discussion, except by way of
pleasantry, being outside her code of manners). How do I know? Why do
you ask me?

MARCHBANKS. I beg your pardon. I thought clever people--people who can
do business and write letters, and that sort of thing--always had love
affairs.

PROSERPINE (rising, outraged). Mr. Marchbanks! (She looks severely at
him, and marches with much dignity to the bookcase.)

MARCHBANKS (approaching her humbly). I hope I haven't offended you.
Perhaps I shouldn't have alluded to your love affairs.

PROSERPINE (plucking a blue book from the shelf and turning sharply on
him). I haven't any love affairs. How dare you say such a thing?

MARCHBANKS (simply). Really! Oh, then you are shy, like me. Isn't that
so?

PROSERPINE. Certainly I am not shy. What do you mean?

MARCHBANKS (secretly). You must be: that is the reason there are so few
love affairs in the world. We all go about longing for love: it is the
first need of our natures, the loudest cry Of our hearts; but we dare
not utter our longing: we are too shy. (Very earnestly.) Oh, Miss
Garnett, what would you not give to be without fear, without shame--

PROSERPINE (scandalized), Well, upon my word!

MARCHBANKS (with petulant impatience). Ah, don't say those stupid
things to me: they don't deceive me: what use are they? Why are you
afraid to be your real self with me? I am just like you.

PROSERPINE. Like me! Pray, are you flattering me or flattering
yourself? I don't feel quite sure which. (She turns to go back to the
typewriter.)

MARCHBANKS (stopping her mysteriously). Hush! I go about in search of
love; and I find it in unmeasured stores in the bosoms of others. But
when I try to ask for it, this horrible shyness strangles me; and I
stand dumb, or worse than dumb, saying meaningless things--foolish
lies. And I see the affection I am longing for given to dogs and cats
and pet birds, because they come and ask for it. (Almost whispering.)
It must be asked for: it is like a ghost: it cannot speak unless it is
first spoken to. (At his normal pitch, but with deep melancholy.) All
the love in the world is longing to speak; only it dare not, because it
is shy, shy, shy. That is the w