And
what good are they? I want to live!
PROF. [Helplessly] My dear, I really don't know what you mean.
WIFE. [Pointing out into the moonlight] Look! Orpheus with his
lute, and nobody can see him. Beauty, beauty, beauty--we let it go.
[With sudden passion] Beauty, love, the spring. They should be in
us, and they're all outside.
PROF. My dear, this is--this is--awful. [He tries to embrace her.]
WIFE. [Avoiding him--an a stilly voice] Oh! Go on with your
writing!
PROF. I'm--I'm upset. I've never known you so--so----
WIFE. Hysterical? Well! It's over. I'll go and sing.
PROF. [Soothingly] There, there! I'm sorry, darling; I really am.
You're kipped--you're kipped. [He gives and she accepts a kiss]
Better?
[He gravitates towards his papers.]
All right, now?
WIFE. [Standing still and looking at him] Quite!
PROF. Well, I'll try and finish this to-night; then, to-morrow we
might have a jaunt. How about a theatre? There's a thing--they say
--called "Chinese Chops," that's been running years.
WIFE. [Softly to herself as he settles down into his chair] Oh!
God!
[While he takes up a sheet of paper and adjusts himself, she
stands at the window staring with all her might at the boulder,
till from behind it the faun's head and shoulders emerge once
more.
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