SIR PATRICK. Yes, yes. I’m here.
LOUIS. Sit down, wont you? It’s a shame to keep you standing about.
SIR PATRICK. Yes, Yes. Thank you. All right.
LOUIS. Jennifer.
MRS DUBEDAT. Yes, dear.
LOUIS [with a strange look of delight] Do you remember the burning bush?
MRS DUBEDAT. Yes, Yes. Oh, my dear, how it strains my heart to remember it now!
LOUIS. Does it? It fills me with joy. Tell them about it.
MRS DUBEDAT. It was nothing—only that once in my old Cornish home we lit the first fire of the winter; and when we looked through the window we saw the flames dancing in a bush in the garden.
LOUIS. Such a color! Garnet color. Waving like silk. Liquid lovely flame flowing up through the bay leaves, and not burning them. Well, I shall be a flame like that. I’m sorry to disappoint the poor little worms; but the last of me shall be the flame in the burning bush. Whenever you see the flame, Jennifer, that will be me. Promise me that I shall be burnt.