tell me I'm
beautiful and men who don't.

JOHN: Not a very brilliant epigram--but still--yes, you ARE beautiful.

PRISCILLA: Of course, if it's an effort for you to say--

JOHN: Nothing is worthwhile without effort.

PRISCILLA: Sounds like Miles Standish; many things I do without effort
are worthwhile; I am beautiful without the slightest effort.

JOHN: Yes, you're right. I could kiss you without any effort--and that
would be worthwhile--perhaps.

PRISCILLA: Kissing me would prove nothing. I kiss as casually as I
breathe.

JOHN: And if you didn't breathe--or kiss--you would die.

PRISCILLA: Any woman would.

JOHN: Then you are like other women. How unfortunate.

PRISCILLA: I am like no woman you ever knew.

JOHN: You arouse my curiosity.

PRISCILLA: Curiosity killed a cat.

JOHN: A cat may look at a--Queen.

PRISCILLA: And a Queen keeps cats for her amusement. They purr so
delightfully when she pets them.

JOHN: I never learned to purr; it must be amusing--for the Queen.

PRISCILLA: Let me teach you. I'm starting a new class tonight.

JOHN: I'm afraid I couldn't afford to pay the tuition.

PRISCILLA: For a few exceptionally meritorious pupils, various
scholarships and fellowships have been provided.

JOHN: By whom? Old graduates?

PRISCILLA: NO--the institution has been endowed by God--

JOHN: With exceptional beauty--I'm afraid I'm going to kiss you. NOW.

(They kiss.)

(Ten minutes pass.)

PRISCILLA: Stop smiling in that inane way.

JOHN: I just happened to think of something awfully funny. You know the
reason why I came over here tonight?

PRISCILLA: To see me. I wondered why you hadn't come months ago.

JOHN: No. It's really awfully funny--but I came here tonight because
Miles Standish made me promise this morning to ask you to marry him.
Miles is an awfully good egg, really Priscilla.

PRISCILLA: Speak for yourself, John. (They kiss.)

PRISCILLA: Again.

JOHN: Again--and again. Oh Lord, I'm gone.

(An hour later JOHN leaves. As the door closes behind him PRISCILLA
sinks back into her chair before the fireplace; an hour passes, and
she does not move; her aunt returns from the Bradfords' and after a
few ineffectual attempts at conversation goes to bed alone; the candles
gutter, flicker, and die out; the room is filled of sacred silence. Once
more the clock chimes forth the hour--the hour of fluted peace, of dead
desire and epic love. Oh not for aye, Endymion, mayst thou unfold