orld's tragedy. (With a deep sigh he
sits in the spare chair and buries his face in his hands.)

PROSERPINE (amazed, but keeping her wits about her--her point of honor
in encounters with strange young men). Wicked people get over that
shyness occasionally, don't they?

MARCHBANKS (scrambling up almost fiercely). Wicked people means people
who have no love: therefore they have no shame. They have the power to
ask love because they don't need it: they have the power to offer it
because they have none to give. (He collapses into his seat, and adds,
mournfully) But we, who have love, and long to mingle it with the love
of others: we cannot utter a word. (Timidly.) You find that, don't you?

PROSERPINE. Look here: if you don't stop talking like this, I'll leave
the room, Mr. Marchbanks: I really will. It's not proper. (She resumes
her seat at the typewriter, opening the blue book and preparing to copy
a passage from it.)

MARCHBANKS (hopelessly). Nothing that's worth saying IS proper. (He
rises, and wanders about the room in his lost way, saying) I can't
understand you, Miss Garnett. What am I to talk about?

PROSERPINE (snubbing him). Talk about indifferent things, talk about
the weather.

MARCHBANKS. Would you stand and talk about indifferent things if a
child were by, crying bitterly with hunger?

PROSERPINE. I suppose not.

MARCHBANKS. Well: I can't talk about indifferent things with my heart
crying out bitterly in ITS hunger.

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.