GUENEVERE. You can't pretend to be art-ing at this hour of the night.
VIVIEN. I could pretend, but I won't. No, Gwen dear, it's not the pursuit of art, it's the pursuit of a man.
GUENEVERE. Don't try to talk like a woman in a Shaw play. I don't like this rigmarole about "pursuit." Say you're in love, like a civilized human being. And take a cigarette, and tell me about it.
VIVIEN. (lighting a cigarette) I don't know whether I'm so civilized, at that. You know me, Gwen. When I paint, do I paint like a lady?—or like a savage! (She does, in fact, appear to be a very headstrong and reckless young woman.)
GUENEVERE. (mildly) Oh, be a savage all you want to, Gwen. But don't tell me you're going in for this modern free-love stuff, because I won't believe it. You're not that kind of fool, Vivien. (She darns placidly away.)
VIVIEN. No, I'm not. I'm not a fool at all, Gwen dear. I know exactly what I want—and it doesn't include being disowned by my family and having my picture in the morning papers. Free-love? Not at all. I want to be married.
GUENEVERE. Well, for heaven's sake, who is it?
VIVIEN. Is it possible that it's not being gossiped about? You really haven't heard?
GUENEVERE. Not a syllable.
VIVIEN. Then I shan't tell you.