ce and surroundings.

MARCHBANKS (breaking off in his recitation): Every poet that ever lived
has put that thought into a sonnet. He must: he can't help it. (He
looks to her for assent, and notices her absorption in the poker.)
Haven't you been listening? (No response.) Mrs. Morell!

CANDIDA (starting). Eh?

MARCHBANKS. Haven't you been listening?

CANDIDA (with a guilty excess of politeness). Oh, yes. It's very nice.
Go on, Eugene. I'm longing to hear what happens to the angel.

MARCHBANKS (crushed--the manuscript dropping from his hand to the
floor). I beg your pardon for boring you.

CANDIDA. But you are not boring me, I assure you. Please go on. Do,
Eugene.

MARCHBANKS. I finished the poem about the angel quarter of an hour ago.
I've read you several things since.

CANDIDA (remorsefully). I'm so sorry, Eugene. I think the poker must
have fascinated me. (She puts it down.)

MARCHBANKS. It made me horribly uneasy.

CANDIDA. Why didn't you tell me? I'd have put it down at once.

MARCHBANKS. I was afraid of making you uneasy, too. It looked as if it
were a weapon. If I were a hero of old, I should have laid my drawn
sword between us. If Morell had come in he would have thought you had
taken up the poker because there was no sword between us.

CANDIDA (wondering). What? (With a puzzled glance at him.) I can't
quite follow that. Those sonnets of yours have perfectly addled me. Why
should there be a sword between us?

MARCHBANKS (evasively). Oh, never mind. (He stoops to pick up the
manuscript.)

CANDIDA. Put that down again, Eugene. There are limits to my appetite
for poetry--even your poetry. You've been reading to me for more than
two hours--ever since James went out. I want to talk.

MARCHBANKS (rising, scared). No: I mustn't talk. (He looks round him in
his lost way, and adds, suddenly) I think I'll go out and take a walk
in the park. (Making for the door.)

CANDIDA. Nonsense: it's shut long ago. Come and sit down on the
hearth-rug, and talk moonshine as you usually do. I want to be amused.
Don't you want to?

MARCHBANKS (in half terror, half rapture). Yes.

CANDIDA. Then come along. (She moves her chair back a little to make
room. He hesitates; then timidly stretches himself on the hearth-rug,
face upwards, and throws back his head across her knees, looking up at
her.)

MARCHBANKS. Oh, I've been so miserable all the evening, because I was
doing right. Now I'm doing wrong; and I'm happy.

CA