GERVASE. My dear, I'm not. Or if I am laughing at you, then I am laughing at myself too. And if we can laugh together, then we can be happy together, Melisande.
MELISANDE. I want romance, I want beauty. I don't want jokes.
GERVASE. I see what it is. You don't like my knickerbockers.
MELISANDE (bewildered). Did you expect me to?
GERVASE. No. (After a pause) I think that's why I put 'em on. (She looks at him in surprise.) You see, we had to come back to the twentieth century some time; we couldn't go on pretending for ever. Well, here we are—(indicating his clothes)—back. But I feel just as romantic, Melisande. I want beauty—your beauty—just as much. (He goes to her.)
MELISANDE. Which Melisande do you want? The one who talked to you this morning in the wood, or the one who—(bitterly) does all the housekeeping for her mother? (Violently) And badly, badly, badly!
GERVASE. The one who does all the housekeeping for her mother—and badly, badly, badly, bless her, because she has never realised what a gloriously romantic thing housekeeping is.
MELISANDE (amazed). Romantic!
GERVASE (with enthusiasm). Most gloriously romantic. . . . Did you ever long when you were young to be wrecked on a desert island?
MELISANDE (clasping her hands). Oh yes!