Candida

use. You won’t make me real answers⁠—only those things that everybody says. He strays to the sofa and sits down disconsolately. Proserpine Nettled at what she takes to be a disparagement of her manners by an aristocrat. Oh, well, if you want original conversation, you’d better go and talk to yourself. Marchbanks That is what all poets do: they talk to themselves out loud; and the world overhears them. But it’s horribly lonely not to hear someone else talk sometimes. Proserpine Wait until Mr. Morell comes. He’ll talk to you. Marchbanks shudders. Oh, you needn’t make wry faces over him: he can talk better than you. With temper. He’d talk your little head off. She is going back angrily to her place, when, suddenly enlightened, he springs up and stops her. Marchbanks Ah, I understand now! Proserpine Reddening. What do you understand? Marchbanks Your secret. Tell me: is it really and truly possible for a woman to love him? Proserpine As if this were beyond all bounds. Well!! Marchbanks Passionately. No, answer me. I want to know: I must know. I can’t understand it. I can see nothing in him but words, pious resolutions, what people call goodness. You can’t love that. Proserpine Attempting to snub him by an air of cool propriety. I simply don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t understand you. Marchbanks Vehemently. You do. You lie⁠— Proserpine Oh! Marchbanks You do understand; and you know. Determined to have an answer. Is it possible for a woman to love him? Proserpine Looking him straight in the face. Yes. He covers his face with his hands. Whatever is the matter with you! He takes down his hands and looks at her. Frightened at the tragic mask presented to her, she hurries past him at the utmost possible distance, keeping her eyes on his face until he turns from her and goes to the child’s chair beside the hearth, where he sits in the deepest dejection. As she approaches the door, it opens and Burgess enters. On seeing him, she ejaculates: Praise heaven, here’s somebody! And sits down, reassured, at her table. She puts a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter as Burgess crosses to Eugene. Burgess Bent on taking care of the distinguished visitor. Well: so this is the way they leave you to yourself, Mr. Morchbanks. I’ve come to keep you company. Marchbanks looks up at him in consternation, which is quite lost on him. James is receivin’ a deppitation in the dinin’ room; and Candy is hupstairs educatin’ of a young stitcher gurl she’s hinterusted in. She’s settin’ there learnin’ her to read out of the ’Ev’nly Twins. Condolingly. You must find it lonesome here with no one but the typist to talk to. He pulls round the easy chair above fire, and sits down. Proserpine Highly incensed. He’ll be all right now that he has the advantage of your polished conversation: that’s one comfort, anyhow. She begins to typewrite with clattering asperity. Burgess Amazed at her audacity. Hi was not addressin’ myself to you, young woman, that I’m awerr of. Proserpine Tartly, to Marchbanks. Did you ever see worse manners, Mr. Marchbanks? Burgess With pompous severity. Mr. Morchbanks is a gentleman and knows his place, which is more than some people do. Proserpine Fretfully. It’s well you and I are not ladies and gentlemen: I’d talk to you pretty straight if Mr. Marchbanks wasn’t here. She pulls the letter out of the machine so crossly that it tears. There, now I’ve spoiled this letter⁠—have to be done all over again. Oh, I can’t contain myself⁠—silly old fathead! Burgess Rising, breathless with indignation. Ho! I’m a silly ole fat’ead, am I? Ho, indeed. Gasping. Hall right, my gurl! Hall right. You just wait till I tell that to your employer. You’ll see. I’ll teach you: see if I don’t. Proserpine I⁠— Burgess Cutting her short. No, you’ve done it now. No huse a-talkin’ to me. I’ll let you know who I am. Proserpine shifts her paper carriage with a defiant bang, and disdainfully goes on with her work. Don’t you take no notice of her, Mr. Morchbanks. She’s beneath it. He sits down again loftily. Marchbanks Miserably nervous and disconcerted. Hadn’t we better change the subject. I⁠—I don’t think Miss Garnett meant anything. Proserpine With intense conviction. Oh, didn’t I though, just! Burgess I wouldn’t demean myself to take notice on her. An electric bell rings twice. Proserpine Gathering up her notebook and papers. That’s for me. She hurries out. Burgess Calling after her. Oh, we can spare you. Somewhat relieved by the triumph of having the last word, and yet half inclined to try to improve on it, he looks after her for a moment; then subsides into his seat by Eugene, and addresses him very confidentially. Now we’re alone, Mr. Morchbanks, let me give you a friendly ’int that I wouldn’t give to everybody. ’Ow long ’ave you known my son-in-law James here? Marchbanks I don’t know. I never can remember dates. A few months, perhaps. Burgess Ever notice anything queer about him? Marchbanks I don’t think so. Burgess Impressively. No more you wouldn’t. That’s the danger in it. Well, he’s mad. Marchbanks Mad! Burgess Mad as a Morch ’are. You take notice on him and you’ll see. Marchbanks Beginning. But surely that is only because his opinions⁠— Burgess Touching him with his forefinger on his knee, and pressing it as if to hold his attention with it. That’s wot I used tee think, Mr. Morchbanks. Hi thought long enough that it was honly ’is hopinions; though, mind you, hopinions becomes vurry serious things when people takes to hactin on ’em as ’e does. But that’s not wot I go on. He looks round to make sure that they are alone, and bends over to Eugene’s ear. Wot do you think he says to me this