ANN. [quite touched] Oh, that's poetry, Tavy, real poetry.
It gives me that strange sudden sense of an echo from a former existence which always seems to me such a striking proof that we have immortal souls.
OCTAVIUS.
Do you believe that is true?
ANN.
Tavy, if it is to become true you must lose me as well as love me.
OCTAVIUS.
Oh! [he hastily sits down at the little table and covers his face with his hands].
ANN. [with conviction] Tavy: I wouldn't for worlds destroy your illusions.
I can neither take you nor let you go.
I can see exactly what will suit you.
You must be a sentimental old bachelor for my sake.
OCTAVIUS. [desperately] Ann: I'll kill myself.
ANN.
Oh no you won't: that wouldn't be kind.
You won't have a bad time.
You will be very nice to women; and you will go a good deal to the opera.
A broken heart is a very pleasant complaint for a man in London if he has a comfortable income.
OCTAVIUS. [considerably cooled, but believing that he is only recovering his self-control] I know you mean to be kind, Ann.
Jack has persuaded you that cynicism is a good tonic for me. [He rises with quiet dignity].
ANN. [studying him slyly] You see, I'm disillusionizing you already.
That's what I dread.
OCTAVIUS.
You do not dread disillusionizing Jack.
ANN. [her face lighting up with mischievous ecstasy—whispering] I can't: he has no illusions about me.
I shall surprise Jack the other way.
Getting over an unfavorable impression is ever so much easier than living up to an ideal.
Oh, I shall enrapture Jack sometimes!
OCTAVIUS. [resuming the calm phase of despair, and beginning to enjoy his broken heart and delicate attitude without knowing it] I don't doubt that.
You will enrapture him always.
And he—the fool!—thinks you would make him wretched.
ANN.
Yes: that's the difficulty, so far.
OCTAVIUS. [heroically] Shall I tell him that you love him?
ANN. [quickly] Oh no: he'd run away again.
OCTAVIUS. [shocked] Ann: would you marry an unwilling man?
ANN.
What a queer creature you are, Tavy!
There's no such thing as a willing man when you really go for him. [She laughs naughtily]. I'm shocking you, I suppose.
But you know you are really getting a sort of satisfaction already in being out of danger yourself.
OCTAVIUS [startled] Satisfaction! [Reproachfully] You say that to me!
ANN.
Well, if it were really agony, would you ask for more of it?
OCTAVIUS.
Have I asked for more of it?
ANN.
You have offered to tell Jack that I love him.
That's self-sacrifice, I suppose; but there must be some satisfaction in it.
Perhaps it's because you're a poet.
You are like the bird that presses its breast against the sharp thorn to make itself sing.