GUENEVERE. You're not going tonight, anyway. Sit down and talk to me.
LANCELOT. All right. (He sits, constrainedly.) What shall I talk about?
GUENEVERE. (smiling) Your work.
LANCELOT. (impatiently) You're not interested in my work.
GUENEVERE. Your love-affairs, then.
LANCELOT. Don't want to.
GUENEVERE. Then read to me. There's some books on the table.
LANCELOT. (opening a serious-looking magazine) Here's an article on "The Concept of Happiness"—by Professor Arthur B. Robinson. Shall I read that?
GUENEVERE. I gather that you are not as fond of my husband as I am,
Lancelot. But try to be nice to me, anyway. Read some poetry.
LANCELOT. (takes a book from the table, and reads)—