(Ten minutes pass.)
PRISCILLA: Stop smiling in that inane way.
JOHN: I just happened to think of something awfully funny. You know the reason why I came over here tonight?
PRISCILLA: To see me. I wondered why you hadn't come months ago.
JOHN: No. It's really awfully funny—but I came here tonight because Miles Standish made me promise this morning to ask you to marry him. Miles is an awfully good egg, really Priscilla.
PRISCILLA: Speak for yourself, John. (They kiss.)
PRISCILLA: Again.
JOHN: Again—and again. Oh Lord, I'm gone.
(An hour later JOHN leaves. As the door closes behind him PRISCILLA sinks back into her chair before the fireplace; an hour passes, and she does not move; her aunt returns from the Bradfords' and after a few ineffectual attempts at conversation goes to bed alone; the candles gutter, flicker, and die out; the room is filled of sacred silence. Once more the clock chimes forth the hour—the hour of fluted peace, of dead desire and epic love. Oh not for aye, Endymion, mayst thou unfold the purple panoply of priceless years. She sleeps—PRISCILLA sleeps—and down the palimpsest of age-old passion the lyres of night breathe forth their poignant praise. She sleeps—eternal Helen—in the moonlight of a thousand years; immortal symbol of immortal aeons, flower of the gods transplanted on a foreign shore, infinitely rare, infinitely erotic.) [1]