BRASSBOUND (assenting firmly). Nor the subordinate with the commander.
LADY CICELY (learning for the first time in her life what terror is, as she finds that he is unconsciously mesmerizing her). Oh, you are dangerous!
BRASSBOUND. Come: are you in love with anybody else? That's the question.
LADY CICELY (shaking her head). I have never been in love with any real person; and I never shall. How could I manage people if I had that mad little bit of self left in me? That's my secret.
BRASSBOUND. Then throw away the last bit of self. Marry me.
LADY CICELY (vainly struggling to recall her wandering will). Must I?
BRASSBOUND. There is no must. You CAN. I ask you to. My fate depends on it.
LADY CICELY. It's frightful; for I don't mean to—don't wish to.
BRASSBOUND. But you will.
LADY CICELY (quite lost, slowly stretches out her hand to give it to him). I— (Gunfire from the Thanksgiving. His eyes dilate. It wakes her from her trance) What is that?