Act III

Late in the evening. Past ten. The curtains are drawn, and the lamps lighted. The typewriter is in its case; the large table has been cleared and tidied; everything indicates that the day's work is done.

Candida and Marchbanks are seated at the fire. The reading lamp is on the mantelshelf above Marchbanks, who is sitting on the small chair reading aloud from a manuscript. A little pile of manuscripts and a couple of volumes of poetry are on the carpet beside him. Candida is in the easy chair with the poker, a light brass one, upright in her hand. She is leaning back and looking at the point of it curiously, with her feet stretched towards the blaze and her heels resting on the fender, profoundly unconscious of her appearance 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